





THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST 
HATH EATEN 



THE YEARS THAT 



THE 



LOCUST HATH EATEN 



BY 



ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH 

A uthor of " Joanna Traill, Spinster " 



Neto 

MACMILLAN AND CO. 

AND LONDON 
1895 



COPYRIGHT, 1895 

BV 
MACMILLAN & CO. 



KI.BCTROTVPBD BV ROBERT DRUMMOND, NEW YORK 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I. ONE OF THE QUEEN'S DAUGHTERS i 

II. PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES g 

III. " BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH" . . 19 

IV. PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS . . . .27 
V. THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE . . .46 

VI. A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE WAY . . 73 

VII. A LAST MISFORTUNE 82 

VIII. FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE . . . .98 

IX. THE BIRD IN THE CAGE 106 

X. Miss CARDREW RETURNS ..... 117 

XI. DOLORES . . . . . . . 125 

XII. TOBIAS AND THE ANGELS ..... 132 

XIII. THE NEW RELIGION ...... 139 

XIV. IN THE STUDIO 147 

XV. A NEW SONG ....... 155 

XVI. DOLLIE GOES TO THE SUN .... IJI 

XVII. MRS. MARKHAM'S TWINS 178 

XVIII. A GIFT 187 

XIX. LONDON, WEST ....... 197 

XX. A POOR THING ... ... 205 

XXI. THE ANGELS ARE VEILED ..... 211 

XXII. Oil THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING! . . . 22g 

XXIII. A BLANK WALL 240 

XXIV. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION .... 248 

XXV. " MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER" . . 259 

XXVI. THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN . 275 

XXVII. WHERE is PRISCILLA? 284 

XXVIII. A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES . 293 

v 



222S3SS 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST 
HATH EATEN. 



CHAPTER I. 

ONE OF THE QUEEN'S DAUGHTERS. 

THE street was off the great thoroughfare of the 
Euston Road, one of the backwaters into which 
drifted some part of the city's human tide. 

It was a dingy street ; blocks on either side, 
leaving visible only a ribbon of sky. One of the 
houses had not yet donned London's smoky 
livery ; it still wore the red that prates of youth 
and a future. 

Here and there in its front it flaunted clean 
windows, curtains too, a pot or so of flowers. 
Up near the roof a cage hung, and the bars did 
not confine the lark's song that thrilled and 
fluttered and rose, as if on strong wings, sky- 
ward. 

i 



THE YEARS THA7* THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

The music flooded the streets and the flats, and 
sounded pleasantly in No. 30, where the furniture, 
newly unpacked, had about it a quaint sugges- 
tiveness of the country. The same suggestive- 
ness might have been seen in the young man 
who was lounging ineffectually about the flat 
elaborately accomplishing nothing. In No. 37 
the lark's song silenced a girl's voice airily run- 
ning up and down a scale. 

" It is time she was here," she said to herself 
impatiently. Then she lifted her voice on the 
bar of a song, bounded to a trill, and, pausing on 
a shake, tumbled a melody about the ears of the 
artist in the flat underneath. He stopped to 
listen, humming over the merry bars " Hier 
kommt die Braut! " " Miss Tennant is getting 
on," he said. " You would think there was spring 
in the air, or love, or something. For a month 
she has lived in a winter of scales, and the bird 
hasn't sung a note, and now they are matching 
each other. Confounded grey day, too no light 
to speak of. What a row those people are mak- 
ing next door! Beastly nuisance moving! " He 
whistled an air, "See the Conquering Hero 
Comes." When he recognised it he broke off 
laughing. 

'It's a regular chorus of welcome ! the three 



ONE OF THE QUEEN'S DAUGHTERS. 

of us hailing the new tenant probably a fat 
charwoman with a nebulous ' dear departed ' 
another of life's little ironies." 

He shrugged his shoulders and settled to his 
painting. But he could not work a vague ex- 
pectation controlled the brush; the noise next 
door made him restless, and overhead he could 
hear Gertrude Tennant moving about, crossing 
to the window, strumming a bar on the piano, 
going to the window again. She spent a good 
deal of time at the window. He had often 
thought it would be pleasant to live opposite to 
her. 

But hers was not the only face at the window 
that day. There were noses flattened against 
many panes in the Regent's Buildings, and heads 
hanging across the sills. 

At the window where the lark sang a red 
handkerchief made a show as of bunting. The 
dancing rag caught Gertrude's eye. She threw 
her sash wide, glancing impatiently to the pave- 
ment. 

" Four o'clock, and no sign of her! ... I won- 
der what all this excitement is about? " 

Down on the flags she could see a group of 
residents working men's wives chiefly, and work- 
ing women's husbands; and further along the 

3 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

street knots and clusters of people, thickening 
towards the Euston Road end. "What can be 
happening? It is not a funeral; they seem to be 
expecting someone." 

She drew in her head and looked round her dis- 
contentedly ; but the discontent was not levelled at 
the room. That satisfied her sense of fitness. It 
was essentially feminine all "art" screens and 
down cushions. There was a piano, but it was 
subdued by a standard lamp in a frilled shade. 
No, it was not the room that was wrong. 

She had been expecting her fate all the after- 
noon in fact, had put off her singing lesson in 
order to hear it, and she was still unsentenced. 
She felt the earnest woman's disgust at the loss 
of an opportunity. 

" Perhaps she has met with an accident, and 
the crowd has gathered to see her carried into 
the hospital, " % she thought, fondling the idea of 
Nemesis arm-in-arm with Lachesis. Suddenly the 
gay chorus broke again from her lips 

" Treulich geftlhrt 
Hier kommt die Braut." 

It stopped as suddenly. . . 
" Mrs. Gibson, what is going on?" she called 
to one of the heads at the next window. 

4 



ONE OF THE QUEEN'S DAUGHTERS. 

Mrs. Gibson turned a bulging eye towards her, 

" Some o' the r'yalties going to the station." 

"Oh! Which of them?" 

' ' I can't rightly tell. Some says one thing, some 
another. But it's one of the Queen's darters." 

Gertrude drew in her head. 

"That all?" 

But restlessness drove her forth again. 

"What is Jimmy saying, Mrs. Gibson?" 

" He wants to know if she will 'ave on a crown, 
so as he can tell 'er by ; and I tells 'im she will 
look just like common flesh and blood." 

"Then how will I know what one she is, 
mother? " 

" Oh, you'll tell her easy ; she'll smile and bow, 
and p'raps she will 'ave a carriage and pair all to 
'erself." 

" Mother, won't she be lonely? " 

"Lor no! she's r'yalty, child. They're used 
to it." 

' ' I hear the music ! I can see sojers ! She is 
coming, mother! " 

" Bless the boy! Keep still, will yer? You'll 
fall out the windy. There won't be no music and 
no sojers she'll just go by in a carridge." 

" Then wot's the good of lookin', mother? " 

"You're right, child. We looks because every- 
5 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

body looks, and that's the long and short of it. 
But you may just as well Jook at Miss Tennant 
for all that you'll see better. I'll be bound the 
princess ain't so good-looking! " 

" Oh yes, Jimmy," put in Miss Tennant; "it 
is worth while looking, if only to say you've seen 
a noble lady one of the greatest in the land. 
Besides, she has made a success of her position ; 
and a successful woman is a spectacle for gods," 
she added cynically. " I think she is coming 
now see, the people are moving! 

But it was only to make way for a furniture 
van that had turned into the street and was roll- 
ing up to the Buildings. 

" That's the worst of these uildins," said Mrs. 
Gibson, giving one eye to the van and the other 
to the road. " Folks is always comin' and goin' 
it's only gentry like you and Miss Cardrew and 
Mr. Maiden that stops any time. And I'm sure 
I don't know wot gentlefolks does livin' here." 

Gertrude laughed lightly. 

' ' Gentlefolks are working people nowadays. 
Besides, we can't afford to move often Mr. Mai- 
den can't put extra windows into his studio every 
few months ; and my piano is a very fast anchor. 
Do you know whose furniture that is coming 

in?" 

6 



ONE OF THE QUEEN'S DAUGHTERS. 

" The new people at 30, I expect. They was 
to come in to-day. Newly married they are." 

" Yes, I know. They are friends of Miss Car- 
drew's." 

" Mother, mother! ain't she comin' now?" 

"No, child. And I'm sure I wish she was, 
keeping me idlin' all day! " 

" I am wasting my time too; I must go in," 
said the girl, retreating from temptation and gos- 
sip. Inside the room the absentee again ruffled 
her brows. 

" I felt certain she would come, so much hangs 
upon it my career everything. Well, it is use- 
less to wait any longer ; I will have tea and go 
out." 

Stephen Maiden was going out too, as she ran 
down the steps ten minutes afterwards. He 
waited for her, lifting his soft felt. In spite of 
his shabby tweed coat, he was attractive, and his 
eyes looking down at the girl's little figure were 
kind and pleasant. He was thinking that her 
short nose made her face piquant. It was not 
the first time he had thought so. 

" Do you share the general expectation, Miss 
Tennant? " 

" What of ? Oh, the princess. All this fuss 
is a little absurd, isn't it? Jimmy Gibson has 

7 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

been flying his red handkerchief in her honour all 
the afternoon." 

"And you have been singing royally. Was 
that in her honour? " 

"Indeed, no! I sang royally because I was 
disappointed royally. Madame Schombert was 
to have come to hear me, and she didn't. I am 
afraid you have been idle again ; you never listen 
when you are busy. How much work have you 
done to-day?" 

" Very little this confounded expectation 
made me restless . . . Jove, what a perfect face ! " 

He sank his voice and was silent. They drew 
aside to make way for a girl coming up the steps. 

She seemed unconscious of their presence her 
eyes smiling, her lips parted, her face brilliant 
with eager life. 

Maiden turned and stared after the figure 
swinging lightly upward. Then he rejoined Ger- 
trude. 

" What is that girl doing in a place like this? 
Do you happen to know her? " 

"It is Mrs. Momerie the new tenant at 
No. 30." 



CHAPTER II. 

PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES. 

THE tidiness that Priscilla Momerie loved was 
at length evident in No. 30. Barrels of straw, 
empty packing-cases, rags of paper had all dis- 
appeared. Even the hall was swept and gar- 
nished. She had herself washed the flags of the 
passage. Mrs. Gibson passing had turned up her 
nose at the streaky effect: "If she couldn't do 
things properly she should ha' let 'em alone." 

Priscilla had been disappointed that no one had 
gone by to admire her bare arms, and her hands 
in the dirty suds. She was proud of her work ; 
and distinctly surprised that her husband had 
taken it for granted. He neither noticed nor 
admired her skill as furnisher and decorator; yet 
only a week before his talk had crystallised around 
the strings of the little bonnet she had made. She 
could never wear it again without thinking of the 
charming fancies with which he had decked it. 
She reflected, blushing as her thoughts alighted on 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

the fence dividing them, that in his class woman 
was naturally a housewife. It was only in her 
set that a practical woman was a person of dis- 
tinction. 

"The necessary virtues may be admirable," 
she thought, "but it is only when they are 
unnecessary that they are admired. At Frods- 
ham, now, if I had swept a room it would have 
been thought a flight of genius." 

She laughed, and travelled round the flat with 
a pleased eye. Bedroom, sitting-room, kitchen ; 
the plain garments of existence, no frills, no 
embroideries. Well, she could not have done the 
work of a larger flat. Besides, for two people 
and Dunstane out the most part of the day 
three rooms were ample. She lingered in the 
sitting-room ; that was where she would write, 
at the bureau that had seen the birth of her 
novel. 

Her father's anger had sent the furniture of 
her rooms after her: "He would have nothing 
in the Rectory to remind him of her." 

" To be sure, he had long since got rid of his 
conscience," she thought. 

She shook off unpleasant memories. The 
merry light came back to her eyes. After all, 
what a help the things had been in furnishing! 



PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES. 

" Dunstane, I wish you would do more and 
dream less." 

Her husband raised himself from the sofa, and 
stood up, his air half-amused, half-apologetic, 
wholly devoted. He was a thin man, loosely 
made. He had a clever face; it would have been 
keen but for the dreaminess of his pale eyes. 
They looked long-sighted, as if they missed 
earth and saw the heavens. As a matter of 
fact they could not see the horizon. He had 
a soft, fair moustache. His forehead was high, 
promising imagination and fine instincts. It 
was his expression that had caught Priscilla's 
fancy. 

"You healthy young women have no respect 
for the ideal," he said with a tender glance at 
her. 

"You teach me the connection between ideals 
and hysteria," she laughed. "But what have 
they to do with hanging pictures? " 

" The pictures represent your young ideals . . . 
They satisfied the girl ; but they can have no 
place in the life of a married woman." 

"Is marriage the bourn from which no ideal 
returns? " she laughed. " But still, I don't un- 
derstand you." 

He came forward, and pinched her ear. 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

" What a dense little goose it is! Don't you 
see that these things look rather out of place in 
the parlour of mature married people? They were 
appropriate enough in your school-room or bou- 
doir." 

" Do you mean the furniture? " 

"Yes; but especially the prints they are not 
large enough and the frames are not handsome 
enough; I like massive frames." 

Priscilla's face flushed. 

"They are Botticellis, dear. They don't need 
frames." 

"Botticellis, are they? Well, they look old- 
masterly . . . But I never could understand the 
craze for saints and angels and madonnas. Give 
me something modern a good Cooper." 

" The gentle domestic cow ! " Priscilla mocked. 
" Meanwhile the pictures are not hung." 

" Well, what's the hurry, sweetheart? There's 
the whole evening before us. Come and sit beside 
me; I want to talk to you. For three days I 
have lost my wife in the housewife." 

" And a capital way in which to lose her," she 
said vigorously. 

There was a moment's interlude. From below 
there came the sound of a low, regular tapping. 
It was the coffin-maker at his trade in the base- 

12 






. PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES. 

merit. Priscilla's face changed as she heard him. 
Then she freed herself from Dunstane's arms. 

' ' We must really get on, Dunstane. They have 
a baby at No. 29, and the knocking will disturb 
it later." 

A mild amusement dawned on the man's face. 

" Are you always going to measure your con- ' 
duct in the bushel of the community? " 

" What else can we do? We are part of the 
Buildings now; there are other people." 

" They will not affect us. You don't want to 
be on visiting terms with the chimney-sweep's 
wife, do you? By the way, he has already left 
his card." 

Priscilla's eyes sparkled ; her face dimpled. 

" If she has babies I do! Dunstane, have you 
ever thought how grubby, and sooty, and dear 
the wee mites will be in a place like this? I 
shall want to begin by a general tubbing." 

"You might, with advantage, begin on your- 
self I know someone who is very grubby, and 
very sooty, and very, very dear." 

Priscilla examined her hand and laughed a 
gay chime of laughter that passed the walls and 
tinkled in Maiden's ears in the next flat. 

He looked up from his work with a delighted 
smile. It was the prettiest thing that Regent's 

13 



THE YEARS TffA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Buildings had heard for many a day ; prettier 
than Gertrude Tennant's surprising vocal gym- 
nastics, rarer than the lark's song. People might 
sing in the Buildings, professionally ; they seldom 
laughed there. 

Momerie looked at the girl with a funny pro- 
test in his eyes. 

"Priss! Priss! what a bad child you are! 
Hide your laugh under the bushel of the com- 
munity. You will wake all the babies in the 
building." 

" If I could only wake you from your dreams!" 
she cried gaily. "Here, give me the hammer. 
I am going to put up the pictures myself." 

He watched her climb the step-ladder and 
stand gingerly on the top. 

Her pose set him talking of heights, ideals, 
ambition. Priscilla listened as she worked. Dun- 
stane talked so well on these subjects, it was an 
inspiration to hear him. 

"Steep is the road to the gods," he said. 
And then he talked of the book he had come to 
London to write "A New Religion," he called 
it ; and his fancy played about Priscilla and his 
work. 

"His New Religion was a ladder. Scaling it, 
the soul hung the world with pictures saints 



PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES. 

and angels and madonnas. Life was the nail, 
opportunity the hammer." 

"The hammer on your own nail prints failure," 
Priscilla mumbled, her thumb in her mouth. 

He was so busy talking that he forgot to pity 
her; he forgot to hand picture or hammer or 
nail to her. She had to mount and descend and 
mount again before her work was done. 

He was roused at last by a cry, and looking 
up, he saw her sitting on the top step, her back 
against the wall, her hands over her eyes. 

" My darling, what is the matter? " 

" Please help me down, I am so giddy." 

But he did not move. Priscilla opened her 
eyes, looking reproachfully. 

" Are you not going to help me, Dunstane? " 

He went forward then, anxious and solicitous, 
and guided her down. His arm was round her. 
The colour came back to her face. She glanced 
at him brightly. 

" Stupid, wasn't it? But it is an old trick of 
mine to get dizzy. I was not meant for the 
heights." 

"You are a headstrong person. You should 
have let me hang the pictures." 

"You were so busy talking. And you 
wouldn't help me when I called." 

15 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

"Dearest! No, for the life of me I couldn't 
move." 

"Dear boy! I nearly fell. After all," she 
went on meditatively, ' ' it was my place to set 
up my ideals in my new life, my saints and angels 
and madonnas. I feel I have really achieved 
something." 

She surveyed the walls, triumph changing to 
dismay. 

"You are right, Dunstane," she said with a 
tragic air, " my ideals are all crooked! " 

"Ah, I knew you would agree with me! 
Confess now. Don't you call this room a 
maiden's bower? " 

Her eyes travelled round, seeing the bu- 
reau with bursting pigeon-holes, the cupboard 
whose glass doors hinted of old china, the 
twine carpet on the floor, the wide Chester- 
field, the straw-seated chairs. They did not 
convict her of maidenliness. They had al- 
ways appeared too strenuous in the old days, 
but she had been proud to suggest a vigour 
of mind in the things she gathered round 
her. 

It was perhaps their simplicity that Dunstane 
confounded with effeminacy. She swung away 

from the thought. 

16 



PRISCILLA HANGS HER PICTURES. 

" Tell me how you would have furnished your 
room, Dunstane." 

But though she listened to his description with 
peals of laughter, pointing his periods with " Silly 
boy ! " and " Old goose ! " her heart dropped like 
a dead bird. 

" Dunstane, tell me about your mother," she 
cried, " I am tired of furniture." 

" My mother? There is nothing to tell about 
her." 

"Oh yes; she was a nice little apple-faced 
woman, and her shop was the prettiest and clean- 
est in Frodsham. I loved to go in. I know 
she used to put sand in the sugar, and she went 
without it in her tea. She skimped herself for 
the clever son at Cambridge, dear old thing! " 

" It was my uncle who sent me to Cambridge," 
said Dunstane prosaically; "he left the money 
for the purpose. He had faith in my abilities. 
Not like my father. Before he died he bought 
me that annuity because I was ' a poor tool and 
would make nothing out.' The prophet in his 
country again !" 

He shrugged his shoulders a movement that 
betrayed the forgiveness he accorded his father's 
memory. 

"He was paralysed for years, wasn't he?" 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Priscilla asked. "I remember him he was a 
shrewd man and very much respected." 

" He did not live to see his mistake, poor 
father! Do you know, Priscilla, I am proud of 
my pass degree. I sacrificed my ' Honours ' to 
a son's love for his mother." 

"But, Dunstane," Priscilla opened her eyes, 
" I heard of it at the time. Poor old lady, she 
wanted so to see you before she died, and you 
were only in time for the funeral." 

" That was the sad part of it. My finals were 
ruined by my anxiety for her. She died while I 
was taking the last paper." 

" I didn't know that was what kept you away," 
she said coldly. " I would have sacrificed a hun- 
dred degrees sooner than disappoint her. Poor 
old mother!" Her voice was passionate with 
reproach. 

"Ah, Priscilla! there comes in the girlish 
ideal!" he answered lightly. " Now let us dis- 
miss the past. I have turned my back on the 
grocer's shop for ever and ever. I hold nothing 

but the future ! " 

18 



CHAPTER III. 

'BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH." 

PRISCILLA had married without her father's 
consent, but not without his knowledge. She 
had always been too proud and fearless to con- 
ceal any act of hers. 

The step had been taken in broad daylight, in 
sight of all Frodsham, tearful at losing the Rec- 
tor's daughter, scandalised that she should throw 
herself away on the grocer's son. 

Priscilla's first memories of Dunstane hovered 
round triangular little packets of peppermint that 
he used to give her over the counter, she, on tip- 
toe, stretching up a chubby hand to receive 
them. She had offered to kiss him in those 
days, and had only been prevented by the coun- 
ter between them. 

Dunstane did not like these reminders. The 
years at Cambridge had cloven a sharp division 
between his birth and himself. It was possible, 
he thought, for anyone to live with him and not 

19 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

discover his humble origin. Priscilla had not 
lived with him a month. But his origin troubled 
her less than it troubled him. From the days of 
proffered kisses to the grocer's son she had been 
regardless of class differences. 

She scarcely knew the stern Rector, who could 
not forget that the child had cost her mother's 
life. He had left her to servants who had 
spoiled her as far as was possible. So she grew 
up with no fine distinctions to teach her that 
flesh and blood in itself cannot inherit the king- 
dom of society. No gospel of gold had been 
thrown at her, stunning her humanity. Who- 
ever showed her kindness was kin to her; and 
there was not a person in the village that was 
not gentle to the child who loved everybody and 
claimed love as her right. 

When her governess arrived it was too late to 
teach Priscilla that she did not belong to the 
people. But it was not too late to set her mind 
to work. Miss Cardrew was a spinster who min- 
gled sentiment and fiction, and was known in 
literary circles as a purveyor of sensations. In 
real life she lived by her knowledge of grammar 
and kindred excellences. She taught Priscilla 
all she knew, and found her an apt imitator in 

the art of novel-making. The scholar had more 

20 



"BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH" 

imagination than the teacher ; and it was easy to 
weave romances round the stories she heard in 
the village. Before Miss Cardrew left her, Pris- 
cilla was contributing to a magazine of the hum- 
bler sort. As she grew up, people called her 
unconventional, and the adjective, clinging like a 
burr, pricked her curiosity. The study of con- 
ventions opened out what was not conventional, 
and she learned a good deal of human nature and 
some elemental truths in her quest after know- 
ledge. She accepted a few rules of society 
she learned to dress her hair, to wear gloves 
on occasion, to leave her book when a visitor 
called, a rare event at the Rectory. For the 
rest . . . 

What could be expected of a girl who tramped 
the moor at all seasons, in all weathers; who 
made friends with gypsies, and was intimate with 
gamekeepers? She might be seen any day 
wheeling out old Betsy Muggins in the wicker 
chair she had bought for her by sacrificing a new 
frock. And when she had taken Betsy home she 
would be flying across the green, a baby on her 
shoulder, and a troop of shouting children at her 
heels. 

She was the darling of the village ; but Frods- 
ham society the doctor's wife, the three Miss 



THE YEARS THA T 7 'HE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Speaights, and the auctioneer's widow would 
have given her a stronger adjective than " uncon- 
ventional " if they had known one. But with 
Priscilla's gay face beaming on them, and Pris- 
cilla's laugh, the brightest thing in their drab 
lives ; with her demure gratitude for their advice, 
and equally demure ignoring of it what could 
they do but whisper the word among themselves? 
It was some relief to them that while it con- 
demned Priscilla it gave her a certain distinc- 
tion. 

At twenty she published a novel. It achieved 
a succh de scandale. One day in her little white 
bed in her little white room at the Rectory, 
Priscilla awoke and found herself yellow. 

She would have fled and hidden herself and 
the hot consciousness the press comments gave 
her; but where could she be better hidden than 
in her own village? 

Literature halted painfully and grudgingly at 
F rod sham. 

All London might be straining to catch a 
glimpse of the daring young author. At Frods- 
ham she was only " Parson's Lass," and nobody 
would have troubled to read her book if they had 
known she had written one. 

She hid her success like the Spartan his fox. 

22 



"BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH" 

It was when the thing was tearing at her vitals 
and threatening betrayal that Dunstane Momerie 
came back to Frodsham to his mother's funeral. 

His eyes told her that he had read her book. 
For the first time in her life she could not meet 
the gaze of a fellow-creature. 

With an excellent discernment he avoided all 
allusion to literature. When his reticence had 
restored her confidence he spoke of her success. 

It was his hand that drew the fangs from the 
beast hidden in her bosom, and he earned her 
passionate gratitude by giving back the self-re- 
spect she had lost. Her book had reached an- 
other soul. There was one who had read and not 
misunderstood her. The subject opened was 
entrancing; they were at once intimate. 

She spent long hours on the moors with him ; 
walking, talking, planning the future's real suc- 
cess. He, too, had ambition. He had drawn 
up a scheme for a great work, its title " A New 
Religion." Everything was ready but the 
needed data. He was going to London. The 
British Museum would furnish the materials he 
wanted. He had an annuity; he would do some 
coaching, and write the book that was to give a 
new hope and a new faith to the world. 

He talked to her of his ideals, his aims. 
23 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Priscilla listened with wistful eyes. They were 
high and noble and large, making her own am- 
bitions insignificant. She only wanted to write 
a book that would touch some heart. Momerie's 
aspirations coursed the universe, travelling too 
swiftly and too far for self to keep pace with 
them. Brave in tinsel and trappings, they 
shamed her homespun ideals. While she saw 
her own shortcomings, she did not see that her 
energy tired him physically and mentally. To 
keep abreast with her he had to strain. How she 
talked ! swinging away with that graceful stride 
of hers, her cheeks aglow, her hair tossed, her 
eyes claiming all the soul in him. 

Momerie's nature was not easily stirred, else 
he must have leaped the hedges weeks before 
circumstances levelled them. 

Priscilla had left him in her usual high spirits. 
An hour after she came back, passionately claim- 
ing his sympathy. The trouble overflowed at 
his first question. 

Yes, everything was wrong everything! Her 
father insisted on her marrying Sir George Old- 
ham, and sooner than do it she would kill her- 
self. But she was not a coward she would not 
die. She would go to London and support her- 
self by literature . . . 

24 



" BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH" 

With what a fatal facility it had all happened ! 
. . . An hour after everything was settled. 

He was on his way to London to write his 
book. They would marry immediately and hunt 
success in leash. It would be pleasanter to live 
together than apart more economical too. And 
he talked of frugality and simplicity, high think- 
ing and plain living. His ideal was a white 
dream of intellectual desires; they would live 
in an attic, near the stars. 

Priscilla agreed heartily. In town the higher 
one lived the cheaper the rent, she told him. 

His eyes reproached her. 

" We should be nearer heaven." 

"Yes, I thought of that too," she answered. 

He was intoxicated by his sudden happiness. 
His heart reeled and his brain spun with it. 

He talked of love, of its joys, its sacrifices, 
" The light that never was on sea or land." 

Priscilla realised that she had never loved, but 
Dunstane would teach her, she said humbly. 

She did not ask herself if she loved him now. 
He thrilled her aspirations ; surely a higher thing 
than the thrill of passion. With him beside her 
she could not fail of realizing all her dreams. 

They had youth, ambition, health, hope, 
genius, opportunity; what more was needed for 

25 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

success? He was a good man, reverent, delicate, 
true. How beautifully he had spoken of the 
Church's benediction and the sacrament of mar- 
riage! It was doubly hard after what he had 
said that she should have to put up with the 
legal contract at the registrar's office. In a storm 
of paternal anger, her dowry, the tears of the 
villagers, she turned her back on Frodsham. 

Mrs. Dunstane Momerie fronted success. 

26 



CHAPTER IV. 

PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

GERTRUDE TENNANT was coming up the steps. 
Maiden saw her, and waited for her. He was 
conscious of a decent coat ; and more than con- 
scious of the glove into whose service he had 
pressed four fingers. Only his respect for a beau- 
tiful woman would have made him do it. 

Seeing that Miss Tennant also bore traces of 
the respectability provided by the tailor, he re- 
gained his ease ; two wrongs sometimes make one 
right. 

" How festive you look! " he said gaily. 

" And you! I scarcely recognised you. Are 
you under the impression this is Sunday? " 

" No, a saint's day only. I am going to call 
on Mrs. on Mr. Momerie." 

" I am going to call too, on Mr. on Mrs. 
Momerie." 

" You knew her before?" 
27 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" No, it was Miss Cardrew who told me about 
her." 

" The little spinster? How comes she . . .?" 

" She was governess, years ago. That is why 
the Momeries came here. Miss Cardrew sug- 
gested it." 

" Ah! I wondered how in the world she had 
drifted in among the unwashed and unconven- 
tional. Imagine the spinster . . . ! " 

" Mrs. Momerie doesn't believe in conventions 
she used to follow the hounds on foot, climb- 
ing gates, leaping ditches." 

" I hope she can't hear us. Poor little girl 
to end in these vaults ! " 

" I must go upstairs and get rid of my parcels," 
said Gertrude. 

" Let me carry them up for you. What, crum- 
pets! May I come to tea? You will have tea, 
won't you, after the state visit?" 

' ' What a boy you are ! Yes, you may come 
if you wish to." 

Being ten years younger than Maiden, Gertrude 
could afford to be motherly. "You will get no 
work done this afternoon. How is the picture 
progressing? " 

" It's at a standstill. Here are your parcels. 

Take care of the crumpets," 

28 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

" I will, since they attract you." 

She was not like a person setting out on a ca- 
reer. She looked like an ordinary woman who 
sees nothing but marriage before her a dainty 
spider weaving a net. 

"Tell me more about Mrs. Momerie," said 
Maiden, following her into the web of screens and 
cushions. "Give me a few pegs on which to 
hang conversation." 

" Can you go back to the rudiments? country, 
and babies, and domestics?" 

"I will try." 

' ' Can you recommend a good blacking for the 
grate? " 

11 Do you mean black-lead?" 

" I never mean anything; it is too inartistic. 
If you are au fait with these things you will suit 
Mrs. Momerie perfectly." 

" Do you know, Miss Tennant, I have never 
seen you spiteful before?" 

"It is the fit of my frock," she answered. 

His brow cleared, he looked his sympathy. 

"So it is. Small waists are bound to make 
one critical and unsympathetic. It's better to 
hear you singing to Jimmy Gibson in an old 
dressing-gown than to hear you attacking Mrs. 

Momerie in the latest fashion." 

29 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

She flushed hotly. Then she laughed. 

" Who .told you about it? Besides, it was my 
new tea-gown. An old dressing-gown, indeed! " 

He laughed. "Now, then, let us sacrifice to 
conventions ; we shall return to nature and crum- 
pets." 

" A man's usual programme," she mocked. 

Mrs. Momerie opened the door for them her- 
self, laughing at the triangular introduction that 
followed. There were no conventions in her man- 
ner. Maiden thanked heaven, and took courage. 
She was very friendly and cordial,, leading them 
into the sitting-room. Gertrude noticed that her 
frock fitted ; she respected her for it. 

Mr. Momerie was out, but Priscilla was not 
alone. Miss Cardrew, a thin little woman in a 
white front and spectacles, was perched on a chair, 
a hassock under her feet. A small island of hu- 
manity adrift on the main of the Chesterfield, lay 
Jimmy Gibson. 

"You know Miss Cardrew; and I need not 
introduce my invalid," said Priscilla merrily. 
" Jimmy has been telling me all about you. I 
recognise his "pretty lidy " in Miss Tennant. 
And wasn't it Mr. Maiden who spent a whole 
morning painting angels and lilies for him to look 

at?" 

30 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

"Yes," Jimmy interrupted, "it was him. 
Mother was out nursing, and he carried me into 
the room and amoosed me." 

" Mr. Maiden finds time for many little kind- 
nesses," said Miss Cardrew in a precise little 
voice. 

"You mean Miss Tennant," said Maiden 
quickly. " Ask her about her dressing-gown ! " 

A faded colour mounted to Miss Cardrew's face. 
She hung her head consciously. 

"Some other time," she murmured. "It is 
scarcely a subject . . . before a gentleman." 

" It was a tea-gown, Miss Cardrew." Ger- 
trude's voice, clear and prosaic, would have tried 
any sentiment and found it wanting. 

The spinster looked relieved. " My dear, that 
makes a difference." 

Priscilla's face was all dimples. She laughed 
gaily. 

" I am so glad you have come together," she 
said. " You teach me to know you at once." 

' ' And you will know there are no more callers 
to expect, "said Gertrude practically. 

" I believe I have had everybody," said Pris- 
cilla. " My husband thinks we must have come 
amongst the unemployed ; so many people have 
offered to be of use to us." 

31 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" They will get over that," Gertrude answered. 
" When they have seen your flat and your furni- 
ture and your husband they will expect you to 
be of use to them." 

" I suppose you know them all? " said Priscilla. 

Gertrude gave a little shudder. 

" I couldn't live here if I did." 

"Mrs. Gibson is a very respectable woman," 
said Miss Cardrew. 

"A descendant of Sairey Gamp, in the direct 
line," Gertrude added. 

"And you forget Mrs. Markham," Miss Car- 
drew said hurriedly. "An admirable woman . . . 
a drunken husband and five children . . . and she 
keeps them all." 

"She is very foolish," said Gertrude, "and 
unpractical. She works at a factory all day, and 
often sits up with a neighbour all night." 

" She would be a general benefactor if she 
kept her rooms and her children clean," said 
Maiden. 

Priscilla did not smile. " Poor soul! how can 
one expect it? Tell me about the others." 

" I don't know any others; there are dressma- 
kers and charwomen and carpenters and railway 
men ; we are the aristocracy, the people with 
something to live for." 

32 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

" Miss Tennant's one ambition is to sing a solo 
in the Albert Hall," said Maiden. 

Gertrude looked at him. She had another am- 
bition that she had not talked to him about, yet. 

"Mr. Maiden's only aim in life is to be hung 
on the line at Burlington House," she retorted. 

"These ambitions are sure to be gratified," 
said Miss Cardrew, shaking her white front. " I 
only wish that mine was as certain of realisation." 

"You want to be famous too, Cardie dear. I 
remember you used to tell me your hopes." Pris- 
cilla looked fondly at her. 

" No, my dear, I have given up all that years 
ago. I only want a cottage in the country now, 
and perhaps a little shop to keep me busy. No, 
my dear, I shall leave fame to you. You will 
succeed, and it will make me very proud and happy 
to see it. Our dear Mrs. Momerie will write a 
great book some day," she explained to the others. 

Priscilla laughed gaily. ' ' Ah, some day ! " Then 
she turned quickly to Gertrude. " There are a 
good many children in the Buildings. I suppose 
you know them all? " 

" No indeed ! Dirty little mortals ! It is not as 
if they were pretty, or interesting, or even clean." 

" But they are children! " said Priscilla. 

The word covered a multitude of sins. 
33 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

' ' They are very noisy, my dear, and very poor," 
said Miss Cardrew. 

" I am glad they are poor," said Priscilla. " I 
like poor people. I like to live in buildings among 
them. But I cannot imagine why you came here." 

She looked inquiringly at Gertrude. Certainly 
a neat little figure, a tailor-made gown, youth, 
and a prosperous air were alien to working men's 
buildings. 

"Oh, Mrs. Momerie, you must not think be- 
cause I have put on my best frock to call on my 
friends that I am not a working woman too. I give 
music-lessons to pay for the training that is to 
make my voice my fortune." 

' ' Ah, I thought I heard a lark singing upstairs 
one day," said Priscilla. 

But Jimmy spoiled the little compliment. 

" It was Miss Cardrew's," he said shrilly. " It 
was stoppin' in our room while she was aw'y- " 

They all laughed, and there was a pause. 

Priscilla was thinking of her interrupted writing. 
But what matter? Life here was more interesting 
than novels. The poor people filled her heart ; 
Gertrude and Maiden, artist and singer, touched 
her imagination. Miss Cardrew was more enter- 
taining than anything she had ever written. 

"I see you have some fine Botticellis, Mrs. 

34 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

Momerie," Maiden interrupted her thoughts. 
' ' ' Tobias and the Angels ' is a great favourite of 
mine." 

The thought in Priscilla's eyes broke into a 
sparkle. 

" Is it? I love it too," she said heartily. " I 
like the beautiful free stride of that angel on the 
right. It is so wholesome and robust. I suppose 
you belong to the modern school? " 

" Mostly," he answered. 

Priscilla reflected that, however ready to talk 
about other people, this man was reticent about 
himself. 

" Mr. Maiden is suffering from laziness," Ger- 
trude put in. " For a fortnight he has done no 
work at all." 

" The artist new has so much to do 
He never has leisure to paint," 

Maiden quoted. 

At this moment the door opened, and Momerie 
came in. Priscilla sprang up and led him forward, 
naming the visitors. Dunstane was cordial, de- 
lighted that they had come to see Mrs. Momerie, 
It was so dull for her while he was at the Museum, 
"but we poor authors have to live." 

" I am too tired to sit down," he added ; "if the 
ladies will excuse me I will lie on the sofa." 

35 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"Indeed you look sadly fatigued," said the 
little spinster. 

He turned fully round before he saw Jimmy 
on the sofa. 

" My dear Priscilla," he said smiling, " you will 
have the place swarming with vermin. This is the 
third dirty brat you have had here to-day." 

Priscilla laid her hand on his arm. 

" Poor little Jimmy is ill, dear. I promised to 
look after him till his mother came back. Come 
and sit here. We are just going to have tea." 

"Tea and sofa are not synonymous terms, 
Priscilla." 

Maiden rose in a leisurely fashion that seemed 
to lengthen out his inches. 

" I must run away now, I am afraid, Mrs. 
Momerie. And look here, Jimmy, I'll take you 
into my room. You are quite used to stretching 
your legs on my divan, aren't you? " 

The boy nodded. Maiden saw the relief in 
Priscilla's eyes, but she protested. 

" I promised Mrs. Gibson ; I should be so sorry 
if he took cold." 

Gertrude rose and shook hands with everybody. 
She had an engagement at 5.30. She glanced at 
Maiden as she said it. Her eyes spelt crumpets. 

He saw nothing but Priscilla's face. 
36 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

"See here, Mrs. Momerie," he said eagerly, 
"if you care to come into my studio and see 
Jimmy settled, you can assure yourself he is quite 
out of draughts. Then your conscience will be 
at rest. I live next door, you know." 

" I think I would like to do that, "said Priscilla. 

She wrapped a shawl round the boy, but 
when she was going to lift him Maiden stopped 
her. 

" Excuse me, you must allow me to do that." 

For a fortnight she had been moving furniture, 
lifting weights, all as a matter of course. Maiden's 
thoughtfulness was a galaxy of recommendations 
that sparkled round him. 

She laughed as she moved away. Maiden 
lifted Jimmy and carried him out, she following. 

He stood aside to let her pass into the studio, 
and she was well in the room before he saw what 
he had done. Priscilla turned at his muffled ex- 
clamation, but he did not explain it. She glanced 
round, her eyes searching for open windows. 

" I think it is all right," she smiled ; " and what 
a delightful room it is ! Oh, that is the procession 
of angels carrying lilies, and . . . how very extra- 
ordinary ! " 

He did not ask the reason of her surprise. It 
took him some time to arrange Jimmy on the 

37 



THE YEARS TffA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

divan. When he lifted himself he threw a swift, 
shy look at Priscilla. 

She had no eyes for him, she was going from 
sketch to sketch wondering, exclaiming, laughing. 
He stood like a culprit in the midst of his work. 
There were studies of a woman's head in chalk, 
oils, water-colour; and each was a portrait of 
Mrs. Momerie. 

That night Maiden tossed on his bed. Gertrude, 
too, was awake, with wide eyes staring into the 
darkness. 

It was a very gay and happy Priscilla that 
filled a big basket the following Monday for her 
first wash. 

The laundry of Regent's Buildings was as near 
the chimney-pots as practicable. This, not in 
order to catch the smuts, but because the flat 
roof offered a drying-ground and an invitation 
to sun and air. 

Priscilla knew nothing about washing, but she 
was cheerfully ambitious of learning. Her toy 
manage gave her the same amusement, but on 
a larger scale, that she had found in her doll's 
house. Dunstane was a fascinating live doll. 
It delighted her to wait upon him in this tiny 
house of hers; and he was not unwilling to be 

waited upon. 

38 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

On this Monday morning he sat in an arm- 
chair lazily admiring her as she bustled about 
gathering up towel and table-cloth. With 
the same admiration he watched her balance the 
basket on her shoulder. 

She turned coquettishly towards him, eyes 
dancing, cheeks brightening. 

"Would you like to come up and see me at 
work, Dunstane? " she asked gaily. 

He made a grimace. 

"Would you have me suffer the horrors of 
steam and suds, Priscilla? " 

" No, dear, of course not. But I thought it 
would amuse you to see me with my sleeves 
rolled up, acting laundry-maid." 

" I don't think it would. My remem- 
brance of washing-day at home has nothing 
amusing about it.- But you look charmingly 
pretty with the basket on your shoulder, dar- 
ling." 

She made him a mocking little curtsey. 

"And what are you going to do while I am 
busy? " she asked. 

His eyes studied the ceiling meditatively. 

"I? Oh, I think I shall stroll into the park, 
and smoke a cigar." 

Priscilla's face fell. 

39 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

' ' Dunstane dear, you said you would take me 
into the park this evening." 

"Did I?" he asked carelessly. "But then, 
darling, I did not think you would insist on 
washing to-day. Surely you would not have me 
waste all the morning waiting for you? " 

Her face cleared. 

" No indeed! " she exclaimed. " Go out and 
enjoy yourself, dear boy. I shall have the love- 
liest time washing the clothes. Really, Dun- 
stane, it is very entertaining to manage a house. 
I feel ever so grateful to you for taking me away 
from my empty life at Frodsham." 

Dunstane answered her affectionate look with 
a glance blended of condescension and superiority. 

" Dearest child, when I have written my 
book, you shall have a home for which to thank 
me." 

Priscilla's laugh rippled out. 

" You prosy old thing! I don't want a better 
home than this." 

She went through the hall thinking happily 
how dear and kind Dunstane was ; and there was 
a new spring in her step as she mounted the 
stairs to the laundry. 

Mrs. Markham and Mrs. Gibson were already 

there, and the two turned critical eyes upon her. 

40 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

They could not accept Mrs. Momerie as one of 
themselves; and though she did not give her- 
self airs, they were doubtful of her. There was 
something suspicious in a lady masquerading as 
a working woman ; and they set up defences 
against her friendliness. 

But when Priscilla began to mix flannel and 
linen, white and coloured, in water that had 
never tasted soda, Mrs. Gibson could not re- 
main silent. 

With elaborate indirectness she addressed Mrs. 
Markham. 

"Town or country, rich or poor, washin' is 
washin' ; and I can't abear to see good clothes 
spiled for the want of common sense. Them as 
doesn't know 'ow to wash should give out their 
clothes. There's plenty would be glad of the 
job." 

Mrs. Markham's eyes persistently avoided 
Priscilla's corner. 

"Them things wants a good dollying, not to 
speak of biling water," she said. "But I was 
never one to interfere ; though it ain't in nature 
to see good clothes ruined . . ." 

Priscilla did not stop her rubbing and wring- 
ing. Washing was the easiest thing in the 
world ; one only needed soap and water and 

41 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

muscles. She splashed away merrily till Mrs. 
Gibson could bear it no longer. 

" You'll spile them fine things, Mrs. Momerie, 
mixing of them with dusters and kitchen towels," 
she said shrilly. " And you want hot water and 
washin'-powder. I never seed nobody wash 
clothes with scented soap before." 

Priscilla looked up blankly. Then she laughed. 

"I thought I was getting on famously, but it 
seems to be a mistake. You see I know nothing 
about washing clothes, but it looked as simple as 
washing one's face." 

Mrs. Markham grunted. Then she wrung the 
soap from her hands and came across to Priscilla's 
tub. 

"I'll just sort 'em for you, my dear," she 
said kindly. " 'Tain't to be expected you should 
know 'ow to wash flannins and such. You want 
soda and sunlight soap. Them tylet soaps ain't 
no good for clothes." 

Priscilla looked on with interest while Mrs. 
Markham demonstrated the science of the laun- 
dry. Then Mrs. Gibson, not to be outdone, 
showed her a dolly-tub and the manner of its 
use. Priscilla listened with a gleeful humility 
that won their hearts. She was so pleased 

to be taught, and so grateful for their teach- 

42 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

ing, that the two women forgot their sus- 
picions. They began to enjoy their superior 
knowledge, and to forgive Priscilla her social 
standing; and soon conversation flowed, while 
the steam enwrapped them, and the piles of 
clothes passed from water to water. 

"I never uses that tub," said Mrs. Gibson, 
nodding at the one which held Priscilla's things. 
" I can't abear the sight on it, not since Mrs. 
Fyke's Jennie were drownded in it." 

" Ay, that was a bad business, that was," 
answered Mrs. Markham. " Her pore mother's 
never looked up since." 

Priscilla gazed at them with questioning eyes. 
Her breath came quickly. Her hands had paused 
in their work. 

"Was a child drowned in this tub?" she 
asked. 

Her strained voice arrested attention. Mrs. 
Gibson's explanation became florid. 

" Yes, that she was," she answered. " Little 
Jennie Pyke; and all the fault of the County 
Council. You see, Mrs. Momerie, they was 
afraid of a water-famine ; and they cuts off the 
water, all but two hours a day. So we was 
obliged to fill up tubs and jars to keep enough 
over the night. And Mrs. Pyke she borrored 

43 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

that tub. And the very first day Jennie was 
drownded in it. Her pore mother just run in to 
my room to horror the loan of a saucepan she 
wasn't above five minutes gone and when she 
got back Jennie was in the tub and never come 
to though we got the doctor to her, and per- 
severed for an hour to fetch her round." 

"Ay, and the coroner give it accidentally 
drownded, though Mrs. Pyke said 'twas the 
fault of the County Council," added Mrs. 
Markham. 

Mrs. Momerie said nothing. A mist of tears 
had shut out the scene of the pitiful little tragedy ; 
and there was no more joy in her work. 

She looked up with white cheeks and piteous 
eyes. 

" Mrs. Gibson ..." she began, but could get 
no further. The sobs in her throat choked her. 
She hurried to the door, and down the steps to 
her flat, crying as she went. 

"She's a kind creetur," said Mrs. Markham 
sympathetically. 

" She'll 'ave to 'arden 'er 'eart if she's to 'ave 
any comfort in the Buildins," said Mrs. Gibson 
drily. " She ain't got much sense, goin' off and 
leavin' them clothes. The water will be dead 
cold before she gets back." 

44 



PRISCILLA MAKES FRIENDS. 

" I'll just finish 'em off for her," said Mrs. 
Markham resignedly. 

"They ain't likely to have any colour with 
her washin'. Ah, poor thing, she's got a soft 
'eart." 

" A bit o' soft-soap would be more good to 'er 
than feelins," returned Mrs. Gibson. " I doubt 
'er 'usband will have a bad bargain with her, for 
all her pretty face and pretty ways. She ain't fit 
to be a pore man's wife." 

"She's clever enough about the house," said 
Mrs. Markham; " always scrubbin' and cleanin', 
she is; and a rare one for children." 

"My Jimmy's took to her wonderful," said 
Mrs. Gibson. 

" I'll give you a 'and with them clothes, Mrs. 
Markham . . . Well I never! Real lace and 
nainsook. Wicked hextravagance I calls it." 

The daintiness of Mrs. Momerie's apparel kept 
the two tongues wagging for half an hour. At 
the end of that time Priscilla reappeared carry- 
ing a tray with tea and bread-and-butter. Her 
eyes were red, but her face dimpled and smiled. 
She would have laughed aloud if she had known 
how the hearts of her critics would melt under 
the gracious influence of those cups of tea. 

45 



CHAPTER V. 

THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE.' 

"THE fact is," said Dunstane breezily, "we 
ought never to have come to this place at all. 
A flat in Kensington would have made all the 
difference in the world to our position." 

Priscilla's laugh rippled out. 

" You foolish person ; of course it would ! " 

The clatter of the Buildings was round them; 
the shuffle of uneducated feet ; the flap of a 
woman's slipper down at heel. Shrill voices of 
children, misplaced aspirates, the crying of a baby 
for whom life is not padded, a muttered curse 
these were the sounds made by the waves on the 
beach ; beyond these, from the Euston Road, 
came fuller voices, the noise of traffic, the shriek 
and rush of trains, a strong subdued hum, the roar 
of the great human sea. 

" One room further west would have been bet- 
ter than three here," Dunstane said. His voice 

held balances weighing sound. 

4 6 



THE BUIDING OF THE FUTURE. 

Priscilla's eyes widened. 

" But, dear, one room! How could we?" 

" Plenty of people do." 

"Yes, I know; and I am so sorry for them. 
But you are not serious, Dunstane? It is 
better to live here humbly than to go further 
west, and sacrifice everything to show. Here 
we are among poor people, and we are near the 
stars." 

" The young girl's ideals again," he said, smil- 
ing. ' ' When will my wife learn to be a practical 
woman? " 

" It is I who am practical, " she returned quickly. 
' ' Before we were married you thought as I did ; 
but now you want to stucco our lives with posi- 
tion and show and pretence. I am content to be 
a plain working woman." 

" You only succeed in being a little goosie gan- 
der!" he said, looking fondly at her. "Don't 
you see, darling, that I shall never get pupils so 
long as this place stamps me a poor man? What 
gentleman could I ask to come here among these 
hob-nails and baggy knees? I can't understand 
how I ever consented to live here. We have been 
five months in town, and I have done no coach- 
ing; I don't regret it so much, since I have an 
opportunity of getting on with the book. That 

47 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

of course is the great thing to be considered. 
After all, the present does not count in the high- 
est scheme of life." 

Priscilla had to stop her writing to listen to him. 
He paced the room talking. He sketched the 
future when the world would be at his feet grate- 
ful for the new religion he had given it ; he spoke 
of faith and hope that grasped the ideal on earth ; 
Heaven was all very well, but no one had ever 
come from Heaven with credentials proving that 
a belief in it was well founded. Faith in one's 
self, in one's work, in one's future a future that 
could be handled that was Heaven; salvation. 
Life was real no mere haze across an open grave. 
It was the worker who grasped immortality ; the 
man who gave his mind, his thought, to the world. 
The book he was going to write would be an ethi- 
cal bomb, shattering ancient fables. When truth 
was given to the world . . . 

Priscilla listened with weary patience. She 
had heard it so many, many times in these five 
months! 

"Dunstane dear, I think you are making a 
mistake." 

" What mistake, little wife?" 

" You are aiming too high. Army pupils and 

coaching are all very well when a man has estab- 

48 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

lished himself, but one should be content to begin 
low." 

" Other men don't begin low. Felix of John's 
stepped into a good thing last week. No, Pris- 
cilla. ' Greatly begin,' that is my motto. A man 
sets his own standard ; the world takes him on his 
own valuation." 

" Till the world finds him out." 

Momerie looked at her amiably. 

" Women have no ambition," he said smiling. 
"You are quite content with Buildings. I aim 
at better things." 

' ' A Castle in Spain ! " 

She did not smile as she said it. Momerie 
reflected that a pretty woman could have a very 
hard mouth. He had not noticed Priscilla's dim- 
ples for a long time. 

" Would you have liked me to take that night- 
school and drum declensions into the head of the 
baker's apprentice?" he asked gaily. 

"I should have taken it in your place," said 
Priscilla equably. "The apprentice would not 
have been a baker; bakers work at night, in 
ghastly bake-houses, and they die soon before 
they dream of declensions." 

Her brow was troubled. That " women have 
no ambition " had bitten. She was beginning to 

49 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

distrust the word, to wonder if, in the struggle of 
life, ambition was altogether a good thing ; for it 
was quite true that she was content to live in 
Regent's Buildings. 

The blood in her veins had the thrill of health 
in it. Life was full of interest, crammed with 
it ; the bushel of the community was heaped and 
running over with it. She missed the country, 
but Regent's Park in the spring when grass and 
trees have not put on dust and mortality is not 
a bad substitute for fields and hedge-rows. She 
liked the sudden shooting of green spikes, the 
flame of the crocus, breaking out of the sward. 
It was prettier than the massed colours in the 
beds. And cowslips and yellow kingcups were 
cheap in the Hampstead Road she could make 
her room golden for twopence. She missed the 
nesting time of the birds but London offered 
her more than Frodsham had ever given. The 
people, oh, the people ! Green leaf and blue sky 
had never touched her as these wan faces that 
waited at her threshold, and went with her up 
and down the wide city. 

Wherever she went she heard the roar of the 
city like the voice of the people moaning. If she 
could only silence the moan ! if she could only 
help them ! If she could only bring the gladness 

50 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

back into the pitiful eyes of the children. But 
she could do so little. She was a poor woman 
like the women round her. Life had her, too, 
whirling her round in its great mill, grinding her 
heart down to the white hopelessness of want. 

It would soon come to that with them, she saw 
with growing uneasiness. The money on which 
they had launched their little craft was getting 
less and less. There had been no rainfall to 
replenish the pool. Already the boat touched 
bottom. The mud was round them. 

But Dunstane did not see that they were 
aground. He was only interested in the stream 
on which, by-and-by, they would float out to 
wider waters. 

The present was nothing to him ; had they not 
an annuity? 

If Priscilla suggested that they could not live 
on ten shillings a week, he talked of the uses of 
adversity, the gilt on the other side of the shield. 
Poverty brought out the best in a man ; endurance 
and fortitude were bread for the soul, to be 
bought without money. From this eloquent 
Hymn to Poverty he would go out, returning 
with a pair of spring chickens . . . " Courage, 
Priscilla! the larder is not yet empty." 

His faith and optimism delighted her. They 
51 



were the sun in whose rays she found happiness. 
Life was a serious thing to her, and she could not 
sufficiently admire the ease with which Dunstane 
carried its burden. Then he leaned on her. And 
she was grateful to him that he had given her a 
place in the world. It might be difficult to bear 
the weight of Dunstane, by-and-by. Now, it 
was an honour. 

She set herself to her writing. She must work 
for the present and leave Dunstane to dream of 
the future. Dunstane's terms at Cambridge were 
a scaffolding he had set up for the raising of that 
future. But the planks and poles had taken the 
place of the building itself. Inside them there 
was nothing but the airy structure of his belief in 
himself and his great work. The only teaching 
that had come in his way was unworthy of a 
"'Varsity man." He looked at it and talked 
of the spirit that being deprived of the suitable 
accepts patiently the possible but he did not 
take it. And, though the thought was still nebu- 
lous, Priscilla had disappointed him. In marry- 
ing her he had unconsciously built on her posi- 
tion ; it made a good basis for that future around 
which the scaffolding was erected, and he had 
looked ahead even when blinded by the flash and 
blaze of his love. Whatever heights he reached, 

52 



THE BUILDING OF THE fUTURE. 

she at his side would not lessen them. But Pris- 
cilla had no influence, and her father would not 
help them ; he had even refused Momerie's re- 
quest that he would give a reference to pupils. 
Dunstane had found out that the Rector was an 
oyster in his shell ; and his daughter was not 
the knife that would open the mollusc. And 
Priscilla had no aspirations. All her ideas cen- 
tred round the present ; she could not see farther 
than to-day. Her advice was not " Hitch your 
waggon to a star," but " Hitch yourself to your 
waggon and pull." She had no imagination what- 
ever. Still she was very pretty and very lovable ; 
brave and sweet and patient. It was not often 
that her mouth looked hard ; and no one should 
expect perfection in a wife. That would ruin all 
chance of domestic happiness. And she was 
cheerful too. What spirits she had ! Neither 
work nor east wind affected her. She laughed at 
the gloomiest day. 

He could have wished that she had more 
humour. Imagine his wife sitting on the public 
staircase her lap full of little Markhams, who 
pulled her hair down and put grubby fingers into 
her eyes, unreproved ! He had seen her on her 
knees in the kitchen dressing the rolling-pin with 
dusters to make a doll for a grimy child ; yes, 

53 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Priscilla! He had come upon her on the hearth- 
rug brooding blissfully over a cat and its kittens, 
and when he protested she had laughed in his face. 

The cat was Maiden's. The artist was as big 
a baby in his way as Priscilla in hers. They 
made a very good pair. That girl upstairs had 
more common-sense than the two put together. 
She had ambition, pertinacity, audacity all the 
elements of success. 

Priscilla took life too merrily, and from too 
low a standpoint : she would never succeed. A 
sudden tremor shook him ; might she not hinder 
his success? 

' ' My advertisement has been in the Times for 
weeks," he said cheerfully, "and it -has not had 
one answer." 

"You should go to an agency, Dunstane, or 
advertise in the Daily Chronicle" 

"That labouring and belabouring organ? 
ridiculous! " 

" If you are a labouring man you must look to 
labour to support you," she said practically. 

" But I am not a labouring man. You forget 
that, my darling." 

She gave him a comical look. 

" No, dear; I only wish you were." 

He turned a reproachful face to her. 
54 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

" I can't bear to hear you laugh, Priscilla. It 
is no laughing matter. Until my work is fin- 
ished we shall really have very little to depend 
on. Dearest, I would not care for myself, but 
you " his voice broke. 

Priscilla was touched. She would have told 
him of the novel under consideration at the pub- 
lisher's, but she dared not share her hopes with 
him. 

She had no doubt of its acceptance. After 
her success no publisher would refuse her book. 
And this was good work. Moreover its com- 
plexion was healthy. 

"A Parish Romance" had brought her 70; 
she might reasonably expect .100 for her second 
book. 

Hope danced after the Will o' the Wisp; but 
she would not tell Dunstane till she could lay 
the cheque in his hand. The break in his voice 
touched her. She went to him and put her arm 
in his. Together they paced the floor, and she 
was sympathetic while he told her of the progress 
his work was making. In another week or two 
he would begin to think of putting the preface 
into shape. 

Suddenly he stumbled over a hassock. 

" I don't know what is wrong with that leg," he 
55 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

said. " It is always either giving way or refusing 
to go on. This morning it stopped under the 
nose of a 'bus. I don't know why I wasn't run 
over." 

"You are growing nervous, dear. But come 
and sit down. I had forgotten that Mrs. Mark- 
ham's room was under ours. We ought not to 
have been tramping about." 

" What is wrong with the woman? " 

Priscilla stopped and clasped her hands to- 
gether, looking at him with shining eyes. 

" Guess! " she said ecstatically. 

" What a child you are! " he smiled. " How 
can I guess? Typhoid probably, though why it 
should make you happy 

" Dunstane ! no, it is I don't suppose you 
could guess it is a baby! 

Her air was radiantly joyous, but her voice 
touched the last words with an almost solemn 
vibration. 

" That's the third since we have been here! " 
said Dunstane. 

" She has six," said Priscilla gravely. "But 
this is the first since we came to the Buildings." 

"There is something very attractive about a 
baby," he said. " An innocent white soul ' trail- 
ing clouds of glory.' ' He talked of the heaven 

56 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

that lies about us in our infancy, of the helpless- 
ness and beauty of a little child, and Priscilla did 
not grow impatient. She hung upon his words, 
growing light-hearted as she listened, and he 
talked, echoing the thoughts that had made music 
in her soul. 

When he finished she looked gaily into his 

face. 

" I must tell you a good joke. I went to see 

the baby to-day such a cosy, crying, red mite it 
is, you would love it." 

''Would I! " said Dunstane grimly. "But 
where does the fun come in? The baby is no 
joke." 

" No, I am coming to it. Mrs. Markham was 
sitting up, very grand in a white shawl a good 
deal the worse for wear. She explained that 
though she only wore it at her confinements it 
was getting dashed." 

" And still I don't see the point." 

' ' You are worse than a Scotsman fronting a 
joke ! " said Priscilla. Then her voice changed 
again to passionate pity : ' ' And isn't it an awful 
thing? She works in a factory and can only 
spare a week; think of it, dear, only a week to 
get strong in ; and the little baby needing her at 
home. Ah, how cruel it is ! When I think of 

57 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN, 

it I could go up and down the country and never 
rest till I had got right laws made for poor 
women." 

" You would waste a good deal of time, Pris- 
cilla. Thank goodness, we have nothing to do 
with 'infants crying in the night.' That would 
be a complication I could not stand." 

Priscilla looked at him with frightened eyes. 
A sudden chill tingled from finger to toe. Was 
this how he would receive the secret that had 
made a song in her heart for the last months 
the glad beautiful thing that was coming to her? 
" A complication he could not stand." 

She had borne cheerfully their poverty, the 
cares that fretted life, fruitless ambition, even 
disillusion ; but at the words the mother instinct 
for the protection of her child flamed up in her, 
scorching her love for Dunstane. 

***** 

At Cambridge Dunstane had donned that 
enthusiasm for humanity which had been the 
fashion in his set, and which, like the cut of 
their coats, marked the men of a certain year. 

The support given by his college to their Uni- 
versity Settlement in the East-end was warm 
and generous; and it was the ambition of his 

friends to serve an apprenticeship in it, and solve 

58 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

the terrible problems of the working man. In 
the mean while they made many pretty and fan- 
ciful solutions on paper, combining the conserva- 
tism of 'Varsity economics with the extreme 
remedies of Marx and his followers. 

At first Dunstane had given only a superficial in- 
terest to these things, but finally he had been bit- 
ten by the earnestness round him. But the two 
systems clashed discordant notes in his brain, and 
in the effort to harmonize them the idea of the New 
Religion was born. In a search for unity, first 
in the social philosophy of the century, and then 
gradually further and further back in the thought 
of all the ages, Dunstane found himself launched 
on a sea of speculation. He could only save 
himself from intellectual shipwreck by trusting 
himself to the planks of the book he was now 
writing. He looked fondly at his pile of notes 
as they lay on the table in the sitting-room. 
The title-page was before him, and he lifted it, 
revealing the heading of a blank sheet: " Chap- 
ter I. The Influence of Confucius on the Social 
Questions of his Day." 

Something like a groan escaped him. He felt 
so empty of Confucius. "Ah, my notes! " he 
muttered. " What was it I read in the Museum 
last week ? I have it here, I know." 

59 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

He fumbled among his papers, turning them 
over with those long artistic fingers of his. 

"The Position of Women among the Jews," 
caught his eye. 

"That is the tenth chapter; I might begin 
there this morning ... or the Introduction ; I 
am in vein for that." 

"Introductory Remarks," he printed on a 
clean sheet of paper. He balanced his pen a 
moment, then wrote rapidly: 

"When and where did the social question 
begin? In the middle of the present century, a 
superficial observer might be tempted to answer. 
Rather, let us say it was initiated by the angel 
with the flaming sword who guarded the entrance 
to Eden. It began with the tilling of the soil in 
the sweat of the brow ; with the struggle of man 
to supply his needs from the untutored forces of 
the universe. 

" Every one knows the graphic account of the 
conflict between the agricultural and the pastoral 
interests, given under the symbols of Cain and 
Abel. And it remains for all time, that pri- 
m.tval type of savage warfare that is even now 
and now more than in all time waking the 
world with its cries. Here in our streets are its 

victims; the underfed baby, the sickly child, the 

60 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

overworked lad, the hopeless casual, the broken 
man, the weary mother. The history of the 
conflict of interests is the history of the world. 
It is not possible to deal exhaustively with the 
manifestations of this spirit in the periods of 
which we have a record. In this book I can 
touch it only very superficially, and with regard 
to those nations only who have left the most en- 
during marks on their age. The past attracts us 
by its mystery and by its simplicity ; the present 
holds us by its bewildering complexity, its 
nearness, by the crying need of it for solu- 
tion. What is the key which shall unlock the 
puzzle? " 

Dunstane propped his head on his hands and 
meditated. Was there indeed any key? Had 
not greater, wiser, stronger men than he spent 
their lives in vain over that riddle? Could 
human intelligence grapple with it, wrest the an- 
swer from it? A traitor consciousness answered, 
" No, confess the truth, there is no answer." 

He threw back his head impatiently. This 
would never do. His book must be written, and 
it must contain an answer; yes, the answer. 
He began again, writing very quickly : 

"Let us be brave; let us acknowledge we 

cannot invent a key. But we can find one where 

61 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

we found the problem, in the history of the 
world. 

" Side by side with the picture of the deadly 
strife of man with man, driven on by needs and 
wants and the desire to possess, there emerges to 
the eye of the seeker another power, universal 
too, though faint sometimes and overcome by 
the violence of the other. It is the power of 
brotherhood ; of love, that instead of taking 
gives, instead of fighting yields; that keeps 
nothing, wants nothing; and so has all." 

He paused and looked triumphantly at Pris- 
cilla, who was at her bureau writing. Her face 
was troubled, her eyes were vague. She was in 
the throes of composition. 

" Let me read you what I have written, Pris- 
cilla," said Dunstane, and without waiting for 
an answer he read aloud from the sheets he had 
covered. 

. Priscilla listened sympathetically, though he 
had dispersed the ideas gathering round her plot. 
Her voice was enthusiastic enough when he had 
rounded his last period. 

"It is very beautiful, dear. But I wonder 
how you will go on." He leaned his head back 
and looked at her with a patronising air. 

" It is quite simple. I'll go on to show how 
62 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

the brotherhood of man will outgrow the primary 
instinct of love and develop the wider vision of 
faith and hope of faith in the ideal, of hope 
for the future." 

"But won't that contradict what you have 
just said ? " Priscilla asked, knitting her brows. 
" I thought you would keep the old order, and 
give love the highest place." 

He smiled forgivingly. "Ah, the feminine 
mind was never logical. What foolish fiction 
have you been dignifying with the name of litera- 
ture this morning?" 

" I have written nothing," she said ruefully. 
" I lost my plot. Oh, Dunstane dear, let me 
talk it over with you. I am sure you can help 
me." 

" Dear child, you can scarcely wish to divert 
my thoughts from serious work to your little at- 
tempts . . . It doesn't really matter much whether 
you get a plot or not, does it? '* 

Priscilla's heart swelled. She looked at him 
amazed. Then she rose quickly, pushed her 
chair aside, and dashed out of the flat and up- 
stairs to Miss Cardrew. 

She opened the door without knocking, and 
entered the room that was the little spinster's 
home. 

63 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

There was a quaint resemblance between Miss 
Cardrew and her room, which was neat and 
bare and old-fashioned. A bunch of pampas- 
grass on the marble mantelpiece was comi- 
cally like the white front that nodded over the 
spinster's polished forehead. And was not the 
lark singing in the window a presentment of the 
happy spirit that looked from Miss Cardrew's 
eye? A recess held the bed and those intima- 
cies of the toilet whose existence Miss Cardrew 
would not for the world have acknowledged. 

When the curtains were drawn across the re- 
cess she ignored, even in thought, its presence; 
looking upon the apartment as a study, and the 
desk under the window its only raison d'etre. 
Besides the desk, strewn with odd sheets of 
newspaper preserved from the spinster's corre- 
spondence, there was very little solid furniture 
in the room. It was carpeted with light mat- 
ting, chaste but cold ; and a cluster of Japanese 
fans on the buff paper supplied its only colour. 
A small oak chest in one corner held Miss Car- 
drew's wardrobe ; and a larger one, being opened, 
revealed kettles, dustpans, and brooms. 

To their owner these chests were articles of 
bijouterie and vertu ; with their contents she did 

not concern herself except in private. 

64 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

These little economies of sentiment were dear 
and lovable to Priscilla; and she gratified Cardie 
by aiding her delicate pretences. But to-day she 
did not stop to think of them. 

"Cardie dear, I can't work; and I have to 
finish a short story by this evening. Have you 
a plot to give me? " 

The spinster pushed her manuscript aside, and 
looked cheerfully at the flash of brilliant colour 
that had suddenly brightened her room. 

" My dear, there's a plot in every flat in the 
Buildings." 

"There isn't one in our flat, Cardie," Priscilla 
said wearily, seating herself by the desk. " Such 
a humdrum life as we are leading! . . . Imagine 
husband and wife so absorbed in their own in- 
terests that they can't spare thought for each 
other. Dunstane and I have not been married 
six months, yet already marriage tastes like 
ginger-beer with the cork out." 

Miss Cardrew laughed gently. 

" My dear Priscilla, your home is one of the 
most interesting I know. Indeed your pretty 
love story has supplied me with a fascinating 
plot. I am working it into a one-volume novel. 
It is nearly finished, my dear." 

"Cardie, you bad little thing! You have 
65 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEtt. 

been hunting romance all the time you pretended 
to be interested in Dunstane and me." 

The little spinster blushed, but did not accept 
the charge. 

"No, no, my dear. Indeed you mistake, 
Priscilla. It quite suddenly occurred to me that 
there were all the elements of a charming ro- 
mance in your life, and I used it. I thought 
you would not mind." 

" I suppose it is a good situation," said Pris- 
cilla thoughtfully. " Our life lends itself delight- 
fully to comedy . . . How did you work it out, 
Cardie?" 

"It began with comedy, Priscilla; but I re- 
gret to say the story has taken the bit in its teeth 
and run away. It is now galloping towards 
tragedy quite against my own will, my dear." 

" Don't apologise, Cardie; the development is 
quite natural. I suppose the tragedy lies in one 
of us discovering that the marriage has been a 
mistake, and there is no love in it." 

" My dear Priscilla, I have not attempted the 
impossible," said Miss Cardrew politely. " No, 
my dear, the tragedy will take place when your 
dear husband is removed from you by a terrible 
accident. I dread the end of the story. I shall 

not finish it without tears." 

66 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

There were tears in her voice as it was, but 
Priscilla was not touched. 

" I wonder how I should feel if Dunstane were 
to die," she said casually. 

Miss Cardrew shuddered. 

" My dear, I can't bear to hear you talk of it 
so calmly. The very idea of it is terrible in 
fiction. And in real life it would be too tragic." 

She broke off with a sob, but Priscilla took no 
notice of her emotion. 

" There is more real tragedy in an unhappy 
marriage," she maintained. "There is nothing 
very horrible in death ; the terrible thing would 
be life together without love." 

She rested her face on her clasped hands, and 
her eyes stared darkly into the future. In their 
depths was a look that made Miss Cardrew un- 
comfortable. 

" It was wrong of me to associate tragedy of 
any sort with your happy life," she quavered. 

Priscilla woke from her dreams with an alert- 
ness that dispersed the spinster's fears. 

" I was thinking of another tragedy going on 
in the Buildings," she said. "Cardie dear, can 
you hear the perpetual tapping of the man who 
makes coffins in the basement? " 

" My dear Priscilla, I beg you not to allude 
67 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

to it. I never even think of it ; it makes me 
nervous." 

Miss Cardrew shrank back with a shi, i- 

"Yes," said Priscilla, "it is horrible for us 
who are strong and well to hear it ; but think 
what it must be to that poor girl who is dying 
upstairs! She has been lying there listening to 
it for six months. She told me she knew the 
size of the coffin by the number of nails they put 
into it ... And she wonders every day if they 
are making hers. 

"Oh," she went on passionately, "it is a 
cruel, cruel thing to be poor, so that you have 
to lie listening to nails being driven into your 
own coffin. That. is a real tragedy." 

"There are many such tragedies here, my 
dear," said Miss Cardrew softly. " There is the 
little old maid, Miss Joyce. She has been em- 
broidering wedding-veils for fifty years a whole 
half-century! Think of all the happiness she 
has helped to make, and it has never come near 
her." 

"Life is a pitiful thing'. " Priscilla said bit- 
terly. " Cardie dear, I think you are happier 
than most women." 

" I am very happy," said Miss Cardrew meekly. 
" My writing is a great solace to me. I could 

63 



1HE BUILDING OP THE FUTURE. 

wish to be privileged to write a really good 
novel." 

" I hope you will," said the girl heartily. " I 
mean to write a great book before I die. The 
thing is to be dominated by the force that makes 
alive ..." 

" Priscilla, I do not quite follow you." 

"It is rather difficult to explain what I mean," 
said Priscilla; " but I have felt it a long time. 
Everything that has life comes from the mingling 
of two forces ; and I believe that thoughts and 
words and books become alive in just the same 
way. When I yield my mind, some force that 
is not me takes possession of it, and the story 
that comes is a living thing. When I write 
without that possession my work has form, but 
no life like an egg without the vital germ." 

"My dear, you startle me! " 

" Long ago people called it inspiration," Pris- 
cilla went on; " but I think of it as a marriage 
of the mind. And your plot runs away, Cardie 
dear, because the other power has given it life." 

"Priscilla, my dear, it seems to me a very 
dangerous theory, and it takes away half one's 
responsibility." 

" It seems to me a beautiful theory," said 

Priscilla joyfully; "'Therefore also that holy 

6 9 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

thing which shall be born of thee . . ." She 
stooped suddenly and kissed Miss Cardrew. 

' ' Good-bye, Cardie dear ; you have given me 
many plots." 

There was a new gravity in her eyes when 
she returned to the sitting-room, where Dun- 
stane was still bending over his "Introduc- 
tion." 

She went to the bureau, and seating herself 
wrote busily. Dunstane watched her with an 
amused tolerance, and was about to speak when 
the door was thrown open and Mrs. Markham 
came in. 

As she saw the woman's face Priscilla ran to 
her. 

" Oh, what is it? What has happened? " 

Mrs. Markham could not find her voice. Lips 
and eyelids were twitching, but she could not 
speak. Suddenly she threw her shawl open 
and gripped Priscilla's arm, drawing her gaze 
down to the burden under the shawl. 

Seeing what it was, Priscilla grew deadly pale 
and began to tremble. 

" Dead! Your dear little baby!" she whis- 
pered. "Oh, my dear! Come and sit down 
and tell me what has happened." 

But Dunstane interposed before Mrs. Mark- 
70 



THE BUILDING OF THE FUTURE. 

ham could take the chair towards which Priscilta 
led her. 

" Had you not better have your talk in the 
kitchen, my darling? " 

" Dunstane," said Priscilla, her voice breaking, 
" Mrs. Markham's little baby is dead." 

" Oh well, oh well," he said impatiently. " I 
dare say it is the best thing that could happen to 
it ... But I can't write while you are making a 
scene." 

Priscilla flashed an indignant glance at him ; 
then she threw her arm round Mrs. Markham 
and drew her into the kitchen. But when she 
saw the mother's dumb despair and the child ly- 
ing dead on her arm, she covered her face with 
her hands and turned away shaking. 

At last Mrs. Markham spoke. 

" I don't want as you should take on so, Mrs. 
Momerie. I didn't hought to ha' let you see 
her, but I am that shook, and I don't know 
where to turn ..." 

"It is so hard," said Priscilla hoarsely. " Oh 
you poor, poor soul, I am so sorry for you ! 
Baby was quite well . . . only this morning . . . ' 

' ' She was, bless her little heart ! But I had 
to go to my work ; and when I come back she 
laid in her cradle that strange I knowed summat 

71 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

were wrong. I just whipped her up and run 
with her to Dr. Barker's. He looked at me that 
feeling. ' Child's dead, Mrs. Markham ; been 
dead these two hours,' says he. And I thought 
I'd come and tell you, and ..." 

She broke off sobbing. Priscilla was crying 
too. It seemed to her that there was a tragedy 

in every life in the Buildings. 

72 



CHAPTER VI. 

" A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE WAY." 

MISS CARDREW sat on the Chesterfield and 
levelled her spectacles at each separate feature of 
Priscilla's face. Her feet dangled six inches from 
the ground as she sat on the sofa. She did not 
want a footstool, she explained to Priscilla, except 
when Mr. Momerie was at home. In a gentle- 
man's presence a woman should be a creature 
without legs. Even a hen has the decency to 
conceal one of hers when possible. 

"Only when she is asleep and doesn't know 
what she is doing, Cardie dear." 

"Ah, Priscilla, Priscilla, these new ideas will 
be your ruin." 

Miss Cardrew shook her head, and her white 
hair detached itself from her forehead, shaking 
also. Priscilla remembered that she had had her 
suspicions of that front ten years ago only then 
it was brown. 

73 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

" The ideas are not new," Priscilla mentioned, 
" at least not newer than the hen." 

" But it is so modern to express them. To be 
sure you are a married woman." 

"Yes, I suppose I am, though I don't see 
that it makes me less modern. I shall be 
pleased to chaperon you, Cardie dear, any time 
you should need such a discipline," she added, 
twinkling. 

" Thank you, my dear; I am sure I have stayed 
at home many times because I needed one. It is 
an ironical inversion of our former positions, but 
then everybody looking at us will take me for the 
chaperon, so it will be all right." 

" Why should a person that looks like a cha- 
peron need a chaperon?" Priscilla asked. 

"Ah, my dear, you are so very direct. It is 
in order to allow marriage some privileges. But 
you always scorned conventions. That is why you 
married Mr. Momerie and came to live here." 

" I came because you lived here." 

Miss Cardrew sat bolt upright, and a pleased 
look snapped in her bright little eyes. 

" Really, my dear, really? " 

"To be sure," said Priscilla, heartily; "old 
friends don't grow on every gooseberry bush." 

"Some do, my dear. And you really came 
74 



"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL^ THE WAY." 

to live near me? But you have made so many 
friends already. Wherever I go it is Mrs. Momerie 
this and Mrs. Momerie that. Last night Mr. 
Maiden called on me. We talked of you for an 
hour, yes, we did." 

"That young man is rather interesting," said 
Priscilla, thoughtfully. " Did I ever tell you he 
made three sketches of me after seeing me once? 
He seemed awfully ashamed of himself when I 
found it out, but I told him I thought him very 
clever; and I have taken an interest in him ever 
since." 

" You like him, then, my dear? rv 

" Ye s," said Priscilla, with reservation in her 
voice. " That is to say, I like his Bohemian At 
Homes; and I like his kittens six of them, the 
dearest possible " 

" My dear, you were always a baby over young 
things. Mrs. Markham was telling me how good 
you were to her when she lost her baby. And I 
told her it was a blessing the little creature was 
taken to another world." 

" How could you !" Priscilla cried passionately. 
"The little thing! the dear little thing! I shall 
never, never forget the sight of that little white 
dead baby ! It would have lived if its mother 
hadn't had to go to that poisonous factory. A 

75 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

week after it was born! Cardie, dear, think 
of that poor woman after all she had gone 
through . . . !" 

' ' My dear Priscilla, you must excuse me . . . 
it is not as if I were married." 

Miss Cardrew hung her head. She looked all 
the conventions and a moral. Priscilla changed 
the subject. 

" I am rather bothered about Dunstane. This 
idleness is so bad for him." 

" Idleness, my dear! is that what you call his 
valuable work? I cannot too greatly admire the 
industry with which he studies. You have for- 
gotten the long hours he spends at the Museum." 

" No," said Priscilla, drily, "I have not for- 
gotten." 

"Your dear husband gave us a treat at Mr. 
Maiden's evening last week. He talked most 
eloquently, wonderfully. You should have seen 
the young men listen. No one wanted to stir 
I was in tears the New Religion. We all felt 
that a prophet was among us, a priest of a new 
dispensation .... Yes, he told us of his work. 
None of us moved .... It was after midnight be- 
fore we could tear ourselves away." 

"Dunstane talks well," said Priscilla. "But 
his book is not yet begun and we have to live. 

76 



"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE WAY" 

It would be better if he could teach an hour or 
two a day." 

"Throw away his talents? And you have his 
annuity he told me about it." 

" It pays the rent and gives us ten shillings a 
week to live on." 

Little by little Miss Cardrew heard the story. 
At the end she gazed wonderingly at Priscilla's 
face a sky with one cloud. 

" My dear, how can you be so cheerful only 
ten shillings a week to depend on? " 

Priscilla was sitting on the hassock beside the 
sofa. She laid her head on Miss Cardrew's 
knee. 

" Dunstane is kind and affectionate," she 
said. "And I think he is fond of me. It is 
nice to be of use to him. I was no use to any 
one till I married. When he can find work things 
won't be difficult. They are rather hard now, but 
I have to be bright for my baby's sake," she 
ended with a whisper. " I can't give her much, 
but she shall have a merry heart to go through 
life with." 

The fingers stroking Priscilla's hair trembled. 
The little spinster slipped down beside Priscilla, 
her thin, old face eager and happy; and the two 
women laughed and wept over the coming of the 

77 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

baby to whom its mother could give nothing but 
a merry heart. 

"I couldn't tell Dunstane," Priscilla said by 
and by. " I am afraid it will vex him. And I 
wanted to tell somebody." 

" But, my dear, there are so many mothers in 
the Buildings." 

"They don't seem to understand they don't 
seem to feel what a wonderful, beautiful thing it is. 
Poor souls, they miss the joy, when it means a 
harder life for everybody." 

" It wasn't right to keep it to yourself, dear. 
And you have other friends." 

"Yes, there is Gertrude Tennant. But she 
would rather sing in the Albert Hall once than 
have twenty children." 

"I should think so indeed!" murmured Miss 
Card re w. 

" And," Priscilla went on dreamily, " there was 
some one else I could have told. I know he 
would have understood, only 

The little spinster sat up stiffly, waiting for the 
end of the sentence. " Only it did not seem fair 
to Dunstane," Priscilla finished, still with the 
dream in her eyes. 

Miss Cardrew's bones relaxed, she bent fonvard 
and kissed the girl. 

78 



"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE WAY." 

11 Follow your heart, Priscilla, always. You can 
trust it to guide you right, my dear." 

The twine carpet was not an attractive seat, but 
she bore it for Priscilla's sake. She had the idea 
she had gathered the girl to her bosom. An ob- 
server would have said it was Priscilla that enfolded 
the little figure. Presently Priscilla noticed that 
Miss Cardrew's white front had slipped aside, 
showing some streaks of faded brown hair. She 
put it straight with tender fingers, and did not 
laugh. 

" Thank you, my dear. I think, Priscilla, your 
hair will never be white. I can read success before 
you and your dear husband's genius.' 

" I can't see it at present, Cardie ; but I mean to 
make my life a success." 

Her voice rang; the light in her eyes grew 
strong and steadfast. 

"And you will, dear. Youth, beauty, health, 
love, ability with all these you cannot fail." 

"I shall not fail," said Priscilla. "And I 
shall have my little baby." 

Voice and eyes softened. 

" I never had any of your advantages, my dear 
Priscilla I was born old." 

" You are not old yet, Cardie dear. Why do 
you wear that white front? your hair is not grey." 

79 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

11 No, my dear; but I wished to make some 
change, and that seemed an appropriate one 
when I lost all." 

"All? " Priscilla echoed. 

"After I left Frodsham, I had my story, 
though it seemed so unlikely. You know what 
love is, child if you lost it." 

The voice quavered and failed, but the words 
pricked Mrs. Momerie's thoughts into a gallop. 
In a little while Miss Cardrew went on. 

" It would not have been so hard if I had had 
the right to mourn him ; he had endeared himself 
to me, but he died before before . . . The lark 
was his, you know." 

Priscilla's fingers tightened on the chilly hand 
in hers. 

"It made such a difference to my life, my 
dear. . . . When I came back I thought 
every one must observe the change in me. I 
thought my hair would be grey. . . . But every- 
thing was the same nothing was changed. . . . 
And it didn't seem right to him. . . . After that 
I got the white front. ..." 

" But, Cardie" Priscilla,choked over the tears 
in her laugh. 

"Yes, Priscilla, I know what you would say. 

I could not expect grey hairs on the brown front. 

80 



"A MERRY HEART GOES ALL THE WAY." 

I didn't ; but there were none anywhere else. My 
own hair came out a little it always falls in 
spring and autumn." 

"You poor little thing! You poor little 
thing!" said Priscilla, kissing her. "And after 
that what did you do? " 

" I found the change in my stories, my dear. 
You would not have thought it, but they sold 
better after I got the white front after I lost . . . 
The lark's song seemed to get into them." 

" Yes, I know," said Priscilla softly. 
Si 



CHAPTER VII. 

A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

PRISCILLA made a very wry face when she saw 
the parcel containing her novel. She had ex- 
pected it, after receiving a note from Messrs. 
Snoad and Follows saying that its publication 
would spoil the reputation she had made by 
"A Parish Romance." They advised her to 
set to work on a story more on the lines of her 
first. 

She had laughed bitterly as she read the note. 
She had accomplished less even than Dunstane, 
with whom she had begun to feel impatient. His 
work at least was not stamped failure. 

There was no cheque then to help them over 
the coming months. The past months' harvest 
was worthless. The future? Ah! yes, .that 
promised something still. 

The dismay passed from her face ; her nerves 
grew steady. Reputation? She did not care a 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

snap for it ! What she needed was money . 
money with which to conjure money that would 
line the nest for her little bird. 

She started up, once more hopeful. She would 
go to the publishers and tell them she was willing 
to sell her fame for money. 

She hurried on her out-door things. She must 
get away before Dunstane came in. She could 
not meet his questions and give him only these 
addled eggs on which hope had sat uselessly 
brooding for five months. She could not listen 
to his higher philosophy. A discourse on failure 
would madden her. She could hear him mouth- 
ing it 

" How far high failure overleaps the bounds of 
low success ..." 

No, she must get away at once. 

At that time of day the Buildings were practi- 
cally deserted, but a child, looking top-heavy 
under the weight of a baby, smiled at her 
as she passed. Priscilla carried the bundle down 
and restored it on the doorstep where Jimmy 
Gibson sat, snatching what summer he could from 
the strip of sky. 

"Wish me luck, Jimmy," Priscilla cried gaily, 
kissing him. 

"Mother's gone to a fun'ral," said Jimmy, 
83 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

wiping off the kiss with his sleeve. " She's a- 
goin' to bring me a bit of the cyke." 

Priscilla smiled. 

" I hope I shall bring back a slice of cake 
from my funeral." Her mouth puckered over 
the idea; it touched the Euston Road whim- 
sically. 

She swung along, her eyes keen for what she 
saw, the traffic netting pavement and pavement 
in noisy meshes; the stations, King's Cross and 
St. Pancras. They reminded her of churches, 
set down in sordid London to tell of a better life 
beyond a life of sky and air and rest, away 
from the turmoil. The shriek of the trains was 
the gospel of the better country. 

Priscilla reined in her thoughts. They sig- 
nalled discontent, though it was scarcely four 
months since she had been more than content 
with the city. But in four months many things 
may happen. Mrs. Markham's baby had died, 
the summer had come, bringing not sun but fes- 
tering heat to the Buildings. 

The atmosphere hinted unpleasantly of the un- 
washed. The people she passed looked poorer 
and dirtier than ever in the sunlight. 

But she was very happy this morning. She 
longed to stop and speak to everybody, the 

84 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

straining horses, the folk, the children, the sad- 
eyed dogs. 

An organ was grinding out the last popular 
tune ; two ragged little girls were dancing to it, 
keenly alive to the admiration of the crowd look- 
ing on. Priscilla stopped too, enjoying the chil- 
dren's tattered triumph. She would have liked 
to dance with them. The organ was lavish 
in runs and variations. In a basket close to the 
merry jar a mournful baby sucked its thumb. 

Priscilla saw it delightedly. She purred and 
cooed to the child, who did not respond. But 
into the face of the woman grinding the organ 
there came a gleam of life, and her eyes brightened 
as she watched. 

Priscilla slipped into the baby's hand the penny 
that was to have paid her 'bus fare home again. 
What did it matter? In an hour she would be a 
rich woman. 

At the corner of Tottenham-court Road she 
took an omnibus going to Charing Cross. The 
colour, yellow, set her teeth on edge; but to- 
day she could afford to think gaily of her first 
novel. 

Two well-dressed women who had been shop- 
ping at Shoolbred's got into the 'bus. They 
looked enviously at her bright face. Either of 

85 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

them would have given everything she possessed 
to have been the pretty girl with whom life went 
so cheerily. 

She alighted at St. Martin's Church and went 
into the Strand, avoiding the short cut of the 
Lowther Arcade. She knew herself too well to 
go voluntarily into that yawning jaw of tempta- 
tion. So long as she had sixpence in her pocket 
she could not have passed the toys without buy- 
ing one for some child of her acquaintance. The 
Strand was gayer than the Euston Road. Some 
of the men here wore frock coats and irreproach- 
able boots, gaiters too; a buttonhole. Not the 
buttonhole of Piccadilly; as a rule the Mal- 
maison carnation is not " something in the City." 
The flower girls at the station gates had baskets 
sparely filled. Business was not brisk. The 
newspaper woman under the post office drove a 
better trade. 

Priscilla walked past them and turned up 
Bedford Street in search of Messrs. Snoad and 
Follows. An air of smug prosperity, due to the 
publishing houses in it, hung about this street. 
Even the name at the street corner had a flour- 
ishing literary air. 

I'riscilla's heart was beating joyously, deepen- 
ing the colour in her cheeks; and her run up. the 

86 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

stairs to the floor on which she would find her 
publishers gave her a look of eager youth. 

The boy did not know if Mr. Snoad was in. 
What name, please? 

Priscilla gave him her card. He fingered it, 
and decided that Mr. Snoad was in. 

Mrs. Dunstane Momerie commanded a certain 
respect. 

" What is she like?" said Mr. Snoad, weighing 
Priscilla's card on the balance of his finger-tips. 
Yes, it was quite the right thing. 

He was a small man, fair and faultless in ap- 
pearance. 

"Young, sir, and pretty and larkish; not like 
a married lady." 

" Show her in, sir. What are you wasting your 
time for, sir, forming opinions?" 

Mr. Snoad smoothed down his moustache, 
hitched up his collar, glanced at his hands. 

When Priscilla came in she found him occupied 
with figures. He finished his line of cyphers, 
then rose apologising, indicated the chair beside 
his desk, and analysed the weather. She agreed 
with him that it was a warm day, and he found it 
pleasant to meet her confiding eyes. 

" Country," he said to himself, and continued 
the conversation suggested by his figures. 

87 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Priscilla hopped with him from topic to topic, 
a good second. Was she from the country after 
all? When she was quite ready Mr. Snoad was 
astonished to find himself perched on the subject 
of the rejected manuscript. He glanced at his 
watch, and exclaimed: "Would Mrs. Momerie 
excuse him? He had an appointment at twelve 
and must run; but his partner, Mr. Follows 
. . . Might he trouble her to step into the next 
room ? Mr. Follows would tell her everything she 
wanted to know. They had had a long talk before 
returning the story." 

Mr. Follows rose, smiling palely at Mrs. Mo- 
merie's name. It was an understood thing that 
Mr. Snoad entertained young and interesting au- 
thors; to Mr. Follows fell the duty of disillusion- 
ing them. 

They did not need the buffer of the weather to 
dull the clash of personalities; this was a business 
interview. Priscilla controlled her gaiety. 

" I am sorry we could not make you an offer 
for your second book," said Mr. Follows pleas- 
antly. "Your first was so successful; it is a 
pity to spoil the effect by publishing an inferior 
work." 

" But this book is infinitely superior to the 
first," said Priscilla bluntly. 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

" Our reader does not think so." 

" Oh, but I know! I was a girl when I wrote 
' A Parish Romance ' I knew nothing about life 
or art or authorship." 

' ' You managed to write a story that people 
wanted to read." 

" But this book is different. I have worked at 
it ... It is not so crude; there is nothing un- 
pleasant." 

" It is very chaste indeed." 

" Then what is wrong? " 

"You see, my dear Mrs. Momerie, in your 
first book the subject but it is impossible forme 
to go into that with a lady." 

" If I can write it I can talk about it," said 
Priscilla. 

"The fact is, it was the subject that sold 'A 
Parish Romance,' not the art. There was no 
literary merit whatever in it." 

" None?" she cried blankly. 

" Very little." 

"Then why did you publish it?" 

" It is the sort of thing that commands a sale." 

" Literary pdtt de foie gras. I think I under- 
stand." 

He glanced away from her face; it was pitiful 
to see the light dying out of it. 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Priscilla was thinking "Then Dunstane was 
wrong; his criticism was worthless." 

She rose wearily. " I had come to tell you 
that I cared more for money just now than for 
fame. But it seems I have not even fame to 
barter." 

Mr. Follows rose and threw a smile to the 
drowning author. 

"You must give us another story like the 
first." 

She flung out her hand with a passionate 
gesture. 

" I pray that I may die before I do that! " 

She turned away from him and walked out of 
the room with feet that were as heavy as her 
heart. The light had failed, and, going, it left 
her face grey and her eyes wide and blank. 
Dunstane's estimate of her book had been false; 
but it was not this that had all at once made the 
world empty for her. A sharp knowledge had 
cut through her life like a blade, severing past 
from present. 

In the past were Dunstane and his apprecia- 
tion of her work, the glamour and glory of the 
dream. In the present were Dunstane and her 
knowledge of him, the shock of a rough awaken- 
ing. 

90 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

For the first time she saw clearly her fatal mis- 
take. She had been as little able to estimate 
the real man as he to pass judgment on the 
merit of her novel. 

She was confronted by the barrier she had 
herself set up in her life ; and she knew too late 
that happiness was on the other side the fence. 

She dragged her feet along the pavement. 
Leaving behind her Charing Cross and the busy 
Strand, she plunged into the squalor of Covent 
Garden. It was the shortest way home, even if 
it led her through unlovely byways. 

She passed idle women who glanced at her; 
and one mocked her weary air; and one, more 
miserable than herself, looked after her pityingly. 

Two little girls played with some withered 
flowers, sitting on the edge of the pavement. 
Priscilla's eyes struck a keen solemnity into their 
fun. She was so sorry for them, because one 
day they would be women knowing the bitter 
anguish of womanhood, and the agony of love 
awakened perhaps too late. 

" Poor little mites! " she thought. " But may- 
be the faded flowers will still satisfy them." 

She passed on, and the children wondered why 
she had looked so pityingly at them. 

She did not notice that she had missed her 
91 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN, 

way till she found herself again at St. Martin's 
Church. 

A yellow omnibus stood waiting to start for 
the Euston Road, but, tired though she was, she 
could not afford to ride. She had spent her last 
penny. 

Ah, how tired she was! The church door 
stood open ; she would go in and rest before she 
started on the walk home. Inside the church it 
was dark and cool and restful. Matins were 
being read, the curate's voice clanging across 
empty pews. When she became accustomed to 
the darkness she saw that one old woman formed 
the congregation. 

She knelt down also, resting her head on her 
hands, and the words of the Benediction dropped 
one by one deep into the silence. 

" The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the 
love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy 
Ghost be with you all, evermore. Amen." 

She heard the steps of the curate clatter on 
the paved floor in his march to the vestry; but 
she did not move. She was kneeling, saying 
over and over half consciously, "The grace of 
our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God; the 
grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of 
God." 

93 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

The words were part of the dimness and the 
quiet, and they offered a pillow on which her 
tired heart could rest. They were like a posy 
of fresh flowers for her weary senses. They car- 
ried her back to the church at Frodsham ; and 
again she knelt in the old pew, a happy girl, and 
rose up in faith and hope. 

But a shuffling step came along the aisle, and 
a voice in her ear brought her back to the 
present. 

" I'm agoing to close the church now," said 
the woman who had represented the congrega- 
tion. 

Priscilla rose slowly. It was hard to go from 
these gentle influences into the struggle that was 
waiting outside for her. 

Yet when she came out into the glare, life had 
taken on a new aspect. Everything seemed 
bright. The fountains in the square rioted in 
sunshine; the hansom bells jingled pleasantly of 
hope. She stepped out heartily towards the 
Euston Road. 

* * * # 

Jimmy was sitting on the doorstep crying. He 
held up a streaky face to Priscilla. 

" Mother's been to the fun'ral, and she's 'ome 
and she ain't brought no cyke." 

93 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"Nor have I, Jimmy," said Mrs. Momerie 
cheerfully. " I am home from my funeral, and 
no cake either. But never mind. As soon as I 
have a cake you shall share it with me." 

" I don't want to 'ave it in your 'ouse." 

" Oh, Jimmy, why?" 

" Because I just 'ates your 'usband. He ain't 
a good 'un like Mr. Maiden." 

Priscilla was whiter than usual, and the colour 
mounted soon to her face. 

" Has Mr. Momerie come in, Jimmy?" 

" Yes; he were atalkin' to mother. She telled 
'im he 'adn't hought to let you run about so 
much." 

Priscilla hurried upstairs. She gained breath 
when she found that Dunstane was not in the 
sitting-room. 

A letter with the Frodsham postmark lay on 
the table. She snatched it up. It was only to 
say that Betsy Hugginswas dead, and what would 
Miss Priscilla like to have them do with the 
wheel-chair? 

She threw it down wearily. 

There was a shuffle outside and Dunstane came 
in, trailing his leg. He stood in the middle of 
the room. 

Still smarting from his criticism that had misled 

94 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

her, Priscilla reflected that his attitude was melo- 
dramatic. 

" Priscilla, is it true? " 

"Yes, dear, it is quite true," she answered, an 
exaggerated breeziness in her voice. " My new 
book has no literary merit, and it is not improper 
enough for publication. Never mind, I must try 
something else. What sort of luck have you 
had?" 

He leaned heavily against the table. 

"I don't know what you are talking about. 
The evasion is not like yourself. Tell me if it is 
true. ..." 

" Is what true, Dunstane dear? " 

" What that woman has been telling me. Isn't 
it hard enough to live without without . . . 
Why should this last misfortune come upon 
us?" 

She stared at him, not understanding what he 
meant. Then a hot colour flamed in her face. 
Her figure straightened. She looked proudly at 
him. 

' ' It is quite true that some day some day ..." 

The defiant ring with which she had begun 
softened to silence. 

Dunstane dragged himself to a chair and fell 
forward on the table, his head on his hands. 

95 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"Oh, my God! could we not have been spared 
this ? " 

He was a pitiful figure, a bladder pricked that 
had collapsed, but Priscilla had no tenderness for 
him. She stood straight and cold, looking at 
him with hard, uncomprehending eyes that did 
not bridge the gulf between them. He could be 
gay over their poverty that touched him lightly. 
His optimism leaped over every difficulty; his 
hopefulness shone in darkest places. But this 
that held all the happiness of the world for her, 
this made him miserable. He reproached God 
for sending them the sweetest gift of life. It was 
hard for her to forgive him. 

At last a gentler mood came to her. She went 
forward and put her hand on his shoulder. 

" Dear, you are so tired. Come and lie on the 
sofa and let me get you some lunch." 

He lifted his hat. For the first time she saw 
him dispirited. 

" No, I must go out again. I refused a post 
just now usher in a preparatory school ; all my 
time and a miserable thirty shillings a week." 

Priscilla's eyes snapped greedily. 

"Thirty shillings a week ! And you refused 
it!" 

He turned on her. 

96 



A LAST MISFORTUNE. 

" Priscilla, would you barter my future for a 
mess of pottage?" 

' ' Yes, I would ! I would ! We are starving on 
ten shillings ; two pounds would keep us, and 
help me ... It would mean so much to us just 
now, Dunstane," she added wistfully. 

" I am going back to accept it," he said dully. 
' ' I must sacrifice everything my future, my 
great work to this unhappy child." 

"Wait till you have had lunch," said Priscilla 
coldly. 

Her heart had melted towards him, but it froze 
again at his last words. 

"I have no time and no heart for food," he 
said. 

But when he tried to rise his limbs slipped, 
and, groaning, he fell to the floor. 

The face he held up to her was ghastly, but he 
would not let her lift him. 

" No, no, my darling; I must take care of you 
now. Wait a bit; I shall soon . . ." 

She was on her knees beside him, and his head 
dropped back on her arm. 

97 



CHAPTER VIII. 

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 

GERTRUDE TENNANT had just finished her 
morning's practice. Her face was flushed and 
triumphant. Her voice had taken a semitone 
higher than ever before. . She thought of it 
breathlessly ; her future trembled on semitones. 
Then her face clouded, and a hard despair was 
in her eyes. 

" But what is the use now ? It is nothing to 
him whether I fail or succeed. He has been 
quite different since she came cold and reserved. 
He scarcely speaks to me now. If she were not 
so good and sweet ! . . . But it is not her fault . . . 
She can't help people loving her." 

Her face had a pathetic droop- it looked de- 
pressed and softer than it had done when she 
called first on Priscilla. Even her frock looked 
depressed she had lost the jaunty air of pros- 
perity that sits on the starched shirt and smart 

coat of the tailor-made woman. Her blouse was 

98 



FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 

limp. The coat and skirt, like Gertrude, had 
seen better days. And yet Madame Schombert's 
verdict had been favourable she had predicted 
a brilliant future for that pliant voice. ' But I 
would give it all up for his love,'' Gertrude said 
to herself every day. 

He had loved her last summer; but that was 
before Priscilla came. A gay and laughing 
Priscilla that made pets of the dirty babies and 
friends of the poor people, and clanged the bell 
of a loving heart so persistently and loudly 
that everybody in the Buildings came to wor- 
ship, Maiden among them even Gertrude her- 
self. 

There was a sudden sharp knock, and the hall 
door opened. 

" Miss Tennant " 

It was Maiden's voice. The poor little girl 
could not keep the happiness from her face. 

" Come in ! " she called, going forward to meet 
him. He was a big man; the short coat broad- 
ened his shoulders. It was absurd to see the 
helplessness in his manner. There was no gaiety 
on his face either. He was pale and anxious. 
The look he gave Gertrude was impersonal, and 
the colour faded from her cheeks. 

" I wish you would go down and see if any- 

9Q 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

thing is wrong with Mrs. Momerie," he said; 
"someone ought to go and see to her." 

" Is anything wrong ?" she said distantly. 

' ' I am afraid so I heard someone groaning. 
There was a fall, and everything has been quiet 
since." 

Gertrude sprang to the door; then she 
stopped. 

" Why didn't you go for Miss Cardrew?" 

"I did. She is out." 

" Mrs. Gibson?" 

"Out, too. Don't waste time. Come " 

She ran down the steps before him, turned 
the handle of Priscilla's door, knocked, and 
went in. 

In a minute she came back to Maiden waiting 
outside. "Mr. Momerie has fainted. Will you 
come in?" 

The relief on Maiden's face sent a pang to 
Gertrude's heart he was suddenly a man again. 
She could imagine him rubbing his hands as he 
followed her into the room. Dunstane was lying 
on the floor, Priscilla bathing his head. "He 
must have walked too far," she explained. " Do 
you think we could lift him onto the sofa? " 

" I feel as if I should never move again," said 
Dunstane. 



FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 

"Nonsense, man !" said Maiden, "you'll be 
all right in a minute. Let me help you up, Mrs. 
Momerie. There, that is better. Now you sit 
down, and leave me to manage your husband." 

His cheery voice put buttresses round Priscilla. 
She leaned on his strength. After all, things 
were not hopeless. Gertrude helping Maiden, 
Dunstane was lifted on to the sofa. MissTennant 
turned to Priscilla in her gentlest manner. " Mr. 
Momerie is .in good hands. Won't you come 
and lie down? You must have had a shock." 

Priscilla pulled herself together, her lips smil- 
ing bravely. "Lie down? No indeed; I am 
going to get my husband some food. He has 
had nothing since breakfast." 

Maiden went out and returned immediately 
with a luncheon-tray. 

"I was just going to have my lunch; they 
always send enough for half a dozen. You can 
depend on me to see to your husband, Mrs. 
Momerie. Take her off, Miss Tennant; I know 
I can trust you." 

Priscilla laughed at his dictatorship, but she 
was glad to escape into the bedroom. She was 
growing sick and faint. 

Gertrude took hat and cloak from her, 
loosened her dress, and made her lie down on 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

one of the two little beds while she made a cup 
of tea. " How kind everybody is Mr. Maiden 
and you ! Would you mind asking if Dunstane 
has eaten anything ? " 

Gertrude met Maiden in the hall. He laid his 
finger on his lips and drew her into the kitchen. 

" How is Mrs. Momerie now?" 

' ' Better. You need not look as if the world 
were coming to an end." She smiled into his 
grave face. 

" I am afraid it is for her, poor girl! Things 
look awfully bad with Momerie. He can't feel 
his limbs at all, and his father was paralysed." 

The colour left Gertrude's face. 

" How terrible for her! " she said, shocked. 

" She mustn't guess. I am sending for the 
doctor. Go back and tell her Momerie is my 
patient, and she is not to bother about him." 

" What a kind heart you have! " 

He smiled, thinking how womanly and sym- 
pathetic she was. 

" What should I have done without your kind 
heart, Miss Tennant? " 

Gertrude went back to Priscilla, her face on 
fire. She looked so radiant that Priscilla met 
her with : 

" I can see you have good news," and was 

102 



FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE, 

content with her answer. She was not sorry to 
be lying on her little bed away from every one 
but Gertrude. The girl was very sweet to-day 
Priscilla liked her soft step, her soft voice, her 
soft hands about her. She did not want Dun- 
stane to come in just then. His weakness made 
her ver^ pitiful and tender towards him. But he 
had stabbed her to the heart, and the knife still 
rankled in the wound. 



" Poor little woman! " said the doctor kindly. 
" No, she must not be told for the present. It's 
a hard case for a young man, but it has been 
coming on some time, he tells me. And with 
that hereditary tendency it's quite hopeless. He 
ought never to have married. She is a fine girl, 
too. I've met her a good many times nursing my 
patients might have done much better. But 
it is no use telling her now. And she took him 
for better, for worse." 

"Quite hopeless, did you say?" Maiden's 
voice was hoarse, his face strained. He and Dr. 
Barker were in Priscilla's kitchen discussing the 
situation. The examination was over. Dunstane 
had been told that he would be helpless "for a 

time." 

103 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

He accepted the verdict cheerfully, and spoke 
of the discipline of pain and disappointment, im- 
pressing the doctor. " Fortunately my book has 
reached a point where I am independent of the 
Museum reading-room," he said bravely. " I 
shall have more quiet for writing, now I am a 
prisoner." " And I shall not have to teach little 
cads for thirty shillings a week," was in his mind. 

The two men did not give him much sympathy. 
It was Priscilla who needed it more. 

" With all his fondness for her he is a selfish 
beast," said Maiden hotly. " How any man 
could be satisfied to hang on all these months, 
living on dreams ! His confounded book! She 
has slaved for him like a charwoman. Look at 
the place and all her own hands! " 

He kicked the coal in the grate viciously. 

" It has been hanging over him a long time; 
he would really not be up to much," said the 
doctor. ''Well, he is done for now. What a 
future before him ! Not thirty, and paralysed ! 
And that poor girl chained to him for life ! ' 

" How she ever married him ! What she ever 
saw in him ! " Maiden cried furiously. 

" He seems to me a very fine fellow; I like 
his pluck. He is cultured, too scholarly, talks 

well." 

104 



FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE, 

" He does. And that is all he does. She has 
thrown herself away." 

" No accounting for what women will do. 
She will have the child to comfort her, but they'll 
never have another." 

There was a pause that made itself felt. Pris- 
cilla stood in the doorway, her eyes appealing to 

them. 

105 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. 

IN the first days of Dunstane's illness Priscilla 
was like a creature in a cage. She dared not 
give voice to her trouble. She scarcely dared 
show her pity and sympathy for him, or dwell on 
the trouble at all. Suppose she could not give 
that birthright of a merry heart. The thought 
was torture to her. She darted from side to 
side of the bars the trouble had put round her. 

Dunstane himself was cheerful enough ; it was 
she who was weighed down by that terrible life- 
sentence. Nothing depressed her husband but 
the thought that lent wings to her day. On one 
subject he was silent, and his silence digged a 
gulf between them. 

She must be up and doing, present and future 
were in her hands. Dunstane's responsibilities 
were at an end. She stepped into the place he 
had never filled. From the bars of the cage her 

courage went skyward, singing. Heartily she 

106 



THE BIRD IN THE CAGE, 

adapted herself to the new conditions. " For 
life," knelled in her ears, but she never let Dun- 
stane guess that she knew of the doom passed 
upon him ; and he never spoke of it to her except 
with that gay optimism she was now learning to 
dread. 

She would have had another medical opinion, 
but Dr. Barker assured her it was unnecessary. 
Mrs. Gibson suggested a free hospital. Dun- 
stane asked her, beaming, if she thought he 
looked like a pauper? 

Mrs. Gibson begged his pardon. " But there, 
you never can tell, appearances is that deceitful." 

To Priscilla the outlook was midnight, lighted 
by one star, and she followed the star. Would 
it not lead her to the cradle of a little child? 

She watched wakeful through the night. " I 
am like the shepherds tending their sheep," 
she thought. "Some night the darkness will 
part ; I shall hear the angels. ' Unto you is 
born 

Thoughts like these led her by the hand be- 
yond the prison walls into the days that would 
be light about her. 

When she was not attending to Dunstane or 
the house she was writing. Morning, noon, and 

night she wielded her pen. It was the sharp 
107 



THE YEARS THAT* THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

point that kept the wolf at bay. Her dreams of 
fame were over. Miss Cardrew had introduced 
her to a market where she could dispose of short 
sensational stories. They were not literature. 
The stuff of which they were made could be 
fashioned by the yard by any person with a fair 
education and some imagination. 

They were not literature, but they did not 
depend on risky situations for their interest, and 
they made no assault on morality. 

Writing incessantly, Priscilla managed to keep 
her household together and put away a little 
fund for the time when she must be idle. 

Sometimes Miss Cardrew's prediction of success 
buzzed about her. She stunned it with her pen, 
laughing. The mountain-paths of literature were 
behind her. She was glad to ride her hack along 
the cobbles of the marketplace. 

But while she wrote she took courage. As 
well as a merry heart she was giving her child 
the gift that had failed her. The fancy struck 
sparks from the stones. Her hack sped 
forward. 

Lying on the sofa watching her, Dunstane was 
surprised to hear her singing as her pen travelled. 

" She has no depth," he thought. " How can 

she face the future and not feel her responsibility? 

108 



THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. 

Any woman in her position would sober down. 
She doesn't give it a thought." 

He spent most of his time on the sofa. At 
first he had been a prisoner in the bedroom, but 
Priscilla's quick wits had altered that. The 
wheel-chair of old Betsy Huggins, who needed it 
no longer, now carried Dunstane from bedroom 
to parlour and back again. 

It comforted Priscilla that he was not lonely 
while she worked ; but his presence hindered her 
writing. His sofa was strewn with papers, the 
straw with which he would make bricks to build 
his great work, and he interrupted persistently. 
What were her pot-boilers compared with his 
New Religion? 

She offered sometimes to read to him. "I 
have no time to spare for enjoyment," he said, 
''but I am glad to see you can still be happy." 

"But, Dunstane, what good does it do to 
mope?" 

" No one will accuse you of moping, Priscilla." 

It sounded like a reproach. She reined in her 
spirits to the funeral pace. Was it not Dunstane 
who had the monopoly of high spirits? 

But she could not be unhappy. She was 
earning enough and to spare. 

Dunstane was a drag upon flying wheels in 
109 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

other ways. His presence at home ended Pris- 
cilla's babyish joys. No more Jimmy, or rolling 
pin dolls; no more grimy babies tumbling about 
the flat ; no more ecstasies over stray puppies. 
Even Maiden's kittens were forbidden. Dunstane 
hated children and animals. 

There were always kittens next door. As soon 
as one batch grew out of babyhood they were 
replaced by another set. Maiden wanted them 
for models, he said; and a certain shop in 
Goodge Street, with another in St. Martin's 
Lane, got into the habit of raising prices at the 
entry of a good-looking man in a shabby tweed 
coat. 

Priscilla told herself honestly Dunstane's pres- 
ence did not altogether compensate for these 
joys; and when she dared she would slink into 
the studio, gather the kittens in her apron, and 
speed back to her kitchen to laugh and croon 
over them till Dunstane's voice brought her back 
to sense and censure. 

At other times, sickened by her stories of high 
life, she would throw away her pen and fly down- 
stairs to the realism of the Markham children; 
grubby little creatures to whom Mrs. Momerie 
was a visitor from fairyland. 

To these visits was due a smartening up of the 
no 



THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. 

Markham flat. Mrs. Markham "couldn't abear 
to see Mrs. Momerie spoiling her good clothes 
on the dirty floor;" so floor and children tasted 
soap and water, and it was good for them. 

She kept a sick puppy in the kitchen for days, 
till the miserable little creature's bark of delight at 
seeing her betrayed her guilt. Dunstane laughed 
at her ; but she had to find another home for her 
beastie. 

There was one subject about which he could 
not laugh. Her sewing irritated him. He hated 
to see her blissful eyes, to hear the broken 
strands of laughter that threaded the hours while 
she stitched. He lay listening for her gurgles of 
happiness ; they fell upon his impotence with a 
rattle as of earth upon a coffin. 

When she found that her work got upon his 
nerves, she would leave him to his book, and 
would go upstairs to Gertrude Tennant, her 
needle moving the more quickly to the girl's 
singing. 

Gertrude took the sweetest interest in Pris- 
cilla's hopes. She had dedicated her own needle 
to the service of ' ' my little baby. ' ' It was pretty 
to see the two girls together working and dream- 
ing, singing and laughing over their secret. The 
work rubbed off some of Gertrude's angles, 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

softening her into an early motherliness. She 
began to see some beauty in the dirty babies of 
the Buildings, to dream of something higher than 
semitones, sweeter than success. It was that 
summer that she gave up her new hat to send 
Jimmy Gibson into the country. 

There was often a wistful look in her eyes, but 
she had ceased to be jealous of Priscilla. Maiden 
spent a good deal of his time among the down 
cushions and art screens. He liked Gertrude's 
gentler moods ; she talked less of her ambitions 
now, and more of Mrs. Momerie. 



One cheerless day in December Priscilla burst 
into Miss Cardrew's room, and all at once the 
desert blossomed. 

Miss Cardrew sat in a flannel dressing-gown 
that repeated washings had made too short for 
her. Her front was pushed to one side, her 
spectacles were low on her nose. She was writ- 
ing. 

At the opening of the door she brushed away 
a tear and pushed up her spectacles. 

"Oh, Cardie dear, ' my heart is like a singing 
bird ' ! I am so happy ! Put your arms round 
me! kiss me! hug me!" Priscilla knelt down 



THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. 

by the dressing-gown to bring her neck within 
reach of the shrunken sleeves. Miss Cardrew 
stood up and did as she was requested. 

There was a twinkle in her eye; she mistook 
it for a tear and brushed it off. 

" Are you just up ? " Priscilla asked. 

Miss Cardrew blushed. " No, my dear, I know 
I am not in a proper dress. It is a habit I have 
got into. Certain stories demand certain cos- 
tumes. This I keep for stories of sentiment. It 
is getting rather worn." 

Priscilla thought of Mrs. Markham's shawl 
" dashed" by too frequent arrivals of little 
Markhams. 

" Give me another kiss," she commanded. 

"My dear, you should not have come to me 
for this," the little spinster quavered. "Your 
dear husband I remember how beautifully he 
spoke the other day on the domestic affections." 

" Dunstane is too busy with his book to be 
worried," said Priscilla. Her face clouded. 

" How is he to-day cheerful as usual? " 

" Yes, but he doesn't like to see me at work." 

" I don't think you should write so much, 
Priscilla. You may do harm . . . You must ex- 
cuse my mentioning it, Priscilla. To be sure I 
have had no experience." 
3 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Priscilla started up, her face white, her eyes 
frightened. "Cardie, don't! It is too cruel! 
God couldn't have meant that the very means by 
which my little baby lives should injure her her 
whole life!" 

"Dear heart, we don'.t see what God meant; 
but the law is there. I know very little about 
infants, but I know if we sow wheat we shall reap 
wheat." 

"It is cruel to talk so," said Priscilla passion- 
ately. "And isn't that what I have been doing? 
I have tried to sow a beautiful soul you say I 
shall reap ' harm.' Why must I fail ? " 

"You have not failed, my dear. That is quite 
impossible, my dear Priscilla. But you must 
write less, and and I should like to suggest that 
you let your father know." 

Miss Cardrew hesitated, a delicate colour in 
her cheek. 

" I have written; it is no use," said Priscilla. 
" It is so strange; almost the only person I don't 
love is my own father," she added wistfully. 

" I never understood him, dear. He always 
terrified me." 

" And me too," said Priscilla thoughtfully. 

When she looked up again the light had re- 
turned to her face. 

114 



THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. 

" No, Cardie, my dear; I don't believe in your 
law of ironies. I have faith in something higher. 
I believe in love." 

" My dear, when you are as old as I am you 
will find that Love has other names. The name 
we give him depends on whether he stands on 
the sunny side of the law of ironies, as you call 
it, or on the shady side. Yes, I have heard him 
called Pain, Failure yes, Death." 

Priscilla had a sudden appreciation of the 
dignity that is independent of externals ; but the 
reflection flitted by. Miss Cardrew's white front 
trembled over the dead memories her eyes carried, 
reminding Priscilla of white plumes nodding on a 
hearse. 

A sudden shiver struck through her amuse- 
ment. She caught the little spinster, shaking 
her. " You are a bad little thing, talking tomb- 
stones. Yes, you are as dismal as as . . . Dun- 
stane's cheerfulness." She released the old lady, 
and paced up and down the room. Presently her 
face softened, her eyes grew dreamy. 

" I don't think I have seen Love on the sunny 
side yet. I shall scarcely know him when he 
comes ; and Pain, I don't know him either. Will 
he come leaning on Love? Failure! Ah, yes, 
I know that one ; but I turned my back on him 
us 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

weeks ago. Death ? No, I shall never see 
Death." 

She drew herself up; the flashing triumph in 
her eyes frightened Miss Cardrew. 

" My dear, my dear Priscilla, don't talk so! 
You are tempting Providence ; it sounds wicked. 
We must all die." 

Priscilla stooped and took Miss Cardrew's 
chilly fingers into her own warm ones. 

" I don't mean to be wicked, Cardie. Just 
look at me. Do I look as if I could die? Do I 
look like Dunstane, or Jimmy Gibson, or even 
Mrs. Markham? " 

" You have a splendid physique, Priscilla." 

Miss Cardrew blinked as she said it ; the girl's 
triumphant beauty dazzled her. Priscilla laughed 
gaily. 

" I feel as if my mind was a smart little 
coachman sitting on a box driving a team. To 
be sure the horses may fall lame, they may even 
die ; but what would happen ? The little coach- 
man would get another, better team. Do you 
doubt it?" 

Miss Cardrew's answer was silenced by the 
sudden gladness of the lark's song. A sunbeam 

had laid a bright bar across the cage. 

116 



CHAPTER X. 

MISS CARDREW RETURNS. 

" THE little coachman would get another, bet- 
ter team ; do you doubt it? " 

All day the question probed Miss Cardrew's 
memory, digging about the dead clay of her 
youth. Did site look like death? She gazed at 
herself in the glass ; she saw a colourless face 
made vivid by keen, bright eyes. She saw a tiny, 
ridiculous figure in a too short gown. It had 
once fitted her ; it was a misfit now, not because 
she had grown but because the flannel had shrunk. 
She pushed her spectacles aside, sat down, and 
turned her vision inwards. She saw a shivering 
little soul, naked, and refusing to put on the only 
garment offered it. The sight made her shrink 
and close her eyes. 

" We must all die." 

Must she send that trembling little creature 
into the open, still unclad? 

She had laid aside her faith in God and Im- 
"7 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

mortality long ago. She had outgrown its scant 
dimensions ; she thought it made her look ridicu- 
lous. But Priscilla wore that same narrow 
garment of faith, and was not ridiculous. 

If this life failed, if the flesh died, there was 
another better team somewhere for Priscilla's soul 
to drive. She had not looked absurd when she 
said it. Miss Cardrew began to wonder whether 
it was because she had grown bigger that the old 
religion no longer fitted. Was it not because her 
faith had shrunk and grown small? 

" If in this life only we have hope, we are of 
all men most miserable." 

The words came back to her as she had heard 
them last, standing beside an open grave. She 
had known their truth then in her utter misery. 
She had had no hope of seeing him again to 
lighten the weight of the load she carried. Her 
heart asked bread. Philosophy had given her 
stones, and earth to earth. 

The figure Priscilla had used pricked her fancy. 
The vision of her lover, not dead but scouring 
eternity, a gay charioteer with immortal steeds 
ah, this was better than earth under the earth ! 
If she could only come back to the old faith! 

The poor little spinster sat by her cheerless 

hearth, her eyes dim with yearning, holding the 

us 



MISS CARDREW RETURNS. 

question of all the ages. Shall we meet our dead 
again ? 

Priscilla's rendezvous with life had set Miss 
Cardrew marching to her rendezvous with death. 
Would the little coachman find another team? 

Twilight had grown around her worn face when 
she shivered and stirred. There was no fire in 
the grate, no lamp lighted. The lark slept in its 
cage. The grey night was upon her. 

She tottered as she struggled to her feet. 

" I will arise and go to my Father," she 
sobbed. 



The words were in her ears when she woke 
next morning, but they persistently misquoted 
themselves. 

" I will arise and go to her father. I will 
arise and go to her father." 

Miss Cardrew could not get away from them 
though it was a busy day with her and she could 
not spare thought for misquotations barking 
profanity. It was not till she had gone down- 
stairs and found Priscilla bending over her 
writing, her face white and drawn, that she saw 
any meaning in the persistent phrase. 

" My dear, you are not well. You should not 

be working," said the little spinster. 
119 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

"I must," said Priscilla cheerily; "I must 
work while I can." 

" But, my dear, you should think." 

"Don't!" cried Priscilla sharply, putting her 
hands over her ears. She knew what Miss 
Cardrew meant, and she could not bear to hear 
it put into words. 

" Well, I can't stay," said Miss Cardrew. " I 
am going marketing. Can I get anything for 
you? " 

" Gertrude is doing my shopping to-day, thank 
you, Cardie dear. I'm in a bad temper don't 
mind me." 

The little spinster climbed the steps to her flat. 

" She is looking very ill, dear child; she ought 
to rest this last month." 

" I will arise and go to her father." The 
words ran up the steps before her, barking. 

Then she understood what she must do. 
It would need courage. The Rector was a 
stern, hard man, but Priscilla must not kill her- 
self. 

She looked out the trains to "Frodsham. She 
could get down that day, see the Rector, and be 
back again in the evening. 

She put seed and water in the lark's cage ; and 
she was ready for her journey. 



MISS CARDREW RETURNS. 

Some hours after she was walking up the main 
street of Frodsham, spying out ancient land- 
marks. There was the old church, grey where it 
was not greened by moss and ivy. Round by 
the south wall was the grave on which the Rector 
himself laid a wreath every Tuesday. He had 
loved his wife. " He cannot be so hard," Miss 
Cardrew thought. 

That house with the lace curtains was where 
the Miss Speaights lived. She had had many 
cups of tea behind the curtains : they were 
draped to allow a view of the street from end to 
end. 

There was the grocer's shop the name of 
Momerie, Grocer and Tea Dealer, still over the 
door. To her town-weary eyes it looked fresh 
and dainty with its raddled steps and latticed 
windows. The wreath of onions inside the door 
swung in the fresh breeze; there was a strong 
smell of peppermint as she passed. She sniffed 
approvingly. She always loved them. She 
would not have had to work so hard if she had 
lived here and kept this nice little shop. She 
looked at it wistfully. " When I have made my 
fortune I shall come back to Frodsham and take 
a little shop like this. I should be among 
friends. That house with the wire blind is 

121 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

where the auctioneer's widow lives I can see 
her head over the blind. Dear me! She still 
wears a white cap and streamers. They must 
remind her agreeably of her loss. Poor woman, 
she had a very sad life with him. I wonder what 
the goodwill of a business- like that could be pur- 
chased for ? I might go back and purchase an 
ounce of peppermints. Priscilla was always fond 
of them. I might ask the question, it could do 
no harm." 

The idea pleased her. She turned back, bought 
the peppermints, asked the question. 

The old man was taciturn. Some businesses 
was worth more'n others; you might get one 
cheap and you mightn't. And you might do 
well wi' groceries and you mightn't. He might 
be giving up when his lease was out and then 
again he might not. Maybe next year, maybe 
not. 

The information such as it was excited Miss 
Cardrew. She put her peppermints into the 
worked bag she carried. She did not regret her 
purchase; she had learned something. 

This visit to Frodsham prophesied possibilities. 
She felt ten years younger here than in town ; the 
past led her again by the hand. 

She peered about with those keen eyes of hers, 

122 



MISS CARD RE W RETURNS. 

seeing Priscilla everywhere. That was the gate 
on which the girl used to swing ; in that pond she 
had waded, to the scandal of the village and the 
shocking of her governess. That was the doctor's 
gig into which she had climbed, driving away in 
spite of the suffering coachman. Miss Cardrew 
was ringing the bell of the Rectory before she 
realised that she had to face the Rector. 

The study was exactly as she remembered it. 
Entering, the air of the governess perched once 
more upon her. She felt that it was quarter day, 
and she had been sent for to receive her salary ; 
nervousness fought with the proper dignity of her 
position as Priscilla's governess. 

The Rector met her as of old, formally, with 
courtesy. At Priscilla's name he stiffened ; but 
Miss Cardrew was not to be frightened. Neither 
the Rector nor her " subject " which was indeed 
a delicate one deterred her. She told the whole 
story without a blush Dunstane's illness, Pris- 
cilla's brave fight, the baby that was coming. 
She spared neither herself nor her listener. A 
plucky little soldier she stood undaunted, and 
fired her shots into the enemy's camp. 

When the echoes of the fusillade had died 
away the Rector drew a note from his purse and 

laid it on the table. 

123 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN 

"Give that to Mrs. Momerie," he said, in a 
voice that crackled. "Tell her from me that I 
hope she will not put me to the pain of refusing 
a second application." 

Miss Cardrew slipped the note into her bag 
with the peppermints. 

" I regret to call dear Priscilla's father a 
beetle," she said to herself, "but he bears a 
singular resemblance to the Egyptian scarab." 

She hurried to the post-office, then to the 
station, and was in time for the up train. 

But she arrived in Regent's Buildings too late. 

Everything was quiet as she toiled wearily up 
the stairs. It was not time for Markham and his 
set to make night hideous. She was very tired ; 
she would have supper and go to bed. Outside 
Friscilla's door she stopped. It was impossible 
but wasn't that an infant crying? 

124 



CHAPTER XL 

DOLORES. 

" IT was terrible," Gertrude said, the tears 
streaming down her face. "All those hours she 
lay there with a face like death no cry, no 
sound. Her eyes seemed to see straight into 
heaven smiling, smiling. Mrs. Gibson was cer- 
tain she would die. I held her hand and wiped 
her face ; it was so little that one could do. ' ' 

She broke off. 

"You ought not to have been there," said 
Miss Cardrew severely. " I should not have 
thought of it at my age, and at yours ..." 

The proprieties sat sternly on the white front. 

"Oh yes, you would, Miss Cardrew. There 
was no one else ; you would not have left her. 
Mrs. Gibson was kind, and the doctor; but 
Priscilla needed me." She wiped her eyes. 
" All the time I was thinking 

Into the valley of death 
Rode the six hundred. 

But she went quite alone." 
125 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

' ' Dear heart ! dear heart ! ' ' The little spinster 
was crying too. 

"When it was quite over," Gertrude con- 
tinued, "you should have seen her face! ' Is my 
little baby all right, Mrs. Gibson?' 'Yes, Mrs. 
Momerie ; I never seed a finer child for eight 
months and what lungs ! ' But it wasn't. The 
most pitiful mite you ever saw; like a little dead 
thing." 

" Where was Mr. Momerie? " 

"At Mr. Maiden's. He made Mrs. Gibson 
wheel him in, and he kept her there talking most 
wonderfully. She took the child in to show him. 
' Oh, baby, baby, you ought not to have come!' 
he said ; and he held the little hand and dropped 
tears into it." Gertrude stopped to wipe her 
eyes again. " I wish I "wasn't so silly, but 
it is all so sad ; and the little mother lying 
there, the proudest and happiest woman in all 
London." 

" I didn't go in," said Miss Cardrew, blowing 
her nose. " I thought it was advisable not to 
do so." 

" I left her sleeping, holding the child." 

" It's a girl? " 

"Yes; she was always certain it would be. 
You should have seen her when she named it- 
Dolores." 

126 



DOLORES. 

"Dolores! She meant to call it Beatrice'" 
cried Miss Cardrew. 

"Yes, but it is so sad altogether." Gertrude 
began to cry again. 

" It has been too much for you, my dear," 
said the little spinster. 

"It is not that, Miss Cardrew, but, sitting 
there, everything appeared different. Life and 
death were so near. I seemed to touch eternity. 
And I felt so small. What did it matter whether 
I ever became a great singer or not? Nothing 
mattered nothing but death. Supposing Pris- 
cilla had died then." 

"The little coachman would have found an- 
other team," said Miss Cardrew tremulously. 



One Sunday afternoon Priscilla held a recep- 
tion. It had been difficult to persuade her to 
rest. There was so much depending on her. She 
must begin her work for the sake of the child. 
She understood now what made it possible for 
women like Mrs. Markham to go back to the fac- 
tory so soon. With those tiny hands pushing 
her on, it is quite certain that Priscilla would have 
defied everybody and begun her work, had it not 

been for that envelope bearing the Frodsham 
127 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

postmark that she had received. It had con- 
tained a ten-pound note and a scrap of writing, 
" For Mrs. Momerie's baby.'' 

Miss Cardrew was greatly excited when she 
heard about it. She insisted on seeing the note 
and the paper. But she did not recognise the 
Rector's writing, though it could have come from 
no one else, she maintained. This opportune 
note gave Priscilla a longer rest ; and as soon as 
it was possible she called her friends and neigh- 
bours together to rejoice with her. They had 
made the sitting-room into a bedroom for Dun- 
stane, so she held her reception in the kitchen. 
She scarcely recognised the place when she came 
in. Maiden had stripped his studio of curtains 
and rugs to make it cosy ; his most comfortable 
chair held out its arms to her. Gertrude had 
provided flowers; Miss Cardrew had hung the 
lark in the window. The kindness and love of it 
all made Priscilla very happy. She wore Mrs. 
Markham's white shawl lent for the occasion ; 
Gertrude's present, a wrap of snowy elegance, 
would keep for another day. 

She sat paler than usual ; the old gaiety on her 
face transfigured into happiness. The baby slept 
in her arms. The little spinster and Gertrude 
were on their knees before the two, wondering, 



DOLORES. 

pitying, adoring. Maiden was also a worshipper, 
but in the outer court. 

The only permanent religion, he was thinking, 
is that which has for its central figures a mother 
and child and Botticelli himself never imagined 
a more perfect Madonna. 

The big man looked shy, and somewhat out of 
place in that cluster of emotional women. He 
had a kitten in each pocket of his coat, and the 
two fluffy heads against the rough coat made a 
fascinating picture. 

But Priscilla did not care a straw for the kit- 
tens. He stole away and left them in the studio. 
But he came back again and hung about aim- 
lessly, listening to the women purring and cooing 
over the baby. If Dunstane had been there it 
would have saved the situation, but Dunstane 
preferred to remain in the sitting-room. He 
could not bear the excitement, but his thoughts 
would be with Priscilla. 

Maiden forgave the women's raptures. Babies 
were not much in his line, but he would have 
welcomed anything that brought the happiness 
to Priscilla's face. By-and-by, in came Mrs. 
Markham and the Markham children, and Jimmy 
Gibson, all in their Sunday clothes, with clean 

faces, herding together. The sight of Mrs. 
129 



THE YEARS TffA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Momerie reassured them, and they went fonvard 
and stood gazing at the morsel of humanity on 
her lap. 

Priscilla acted showman, proudly showing 
the eyelashes, the dear little hands, the tiny 
feet. 

Mrs. Markham dropped into the background, 
put her apron over her face, and behind it whis- 
pered sobbing to Mrs. Gibson : 

" It's as like the one I lost, it might ha' been 
the same. It's give me quite a turn to see it ; 
that was the way mine looked when it was laid 
out." 

Suddenly the eldest girl spoke up shrilly 

"It's not much of a byby to look at. Not 
like our Sallie 'er was a wopper, 'er was." 

'' It's like our last byby wot died," piped an- 
other small voice. 

Maiden saw the scared look in Priscilla's eyes. 
She turned them on the baby and then on the 
children, tracing pitiful dissimilarities. 

" We put our byby in a box and deaded it," 
said Susie, smiling into Priscilla's face. 

" Oh, hush, my dear! " said Miss Cardrew. 

"Little gels should be seen and not 'card," 
said Mrs Gibson. " Run away to your play 

now." 

130 



DOLORES. 

"We never pl'y s 'cept when Mrs. Momerie 
pl'ys with us." 

Maiden stepped forward. 

" Will you trust the youngster to me a minute, 
Mrs. Momerie? I should like to hold her. What 
a fragile little flower it is ! I like them small and 
young, and helpless like this," he went on. 
' ' Those robust young rascals, all legs and arms, 
don't reach one's heart so soon as these wee 
white dollies." 

Priscilla's eyes were on them with a look he 
could not meet. 

A flicker passed over the baby's face. 

' ' Do you see ? She is smiling in her sleep, " he 
said. 

"The angels are whispering to her," mur- 
mured Miss Cardrew. 

"Lor, ma'am! it's only the wind. Wherever 
did I put that dill water now? " said Mrs. Gibson, 
bustling. 

Maiden's shoulders were shaking. He crossed 
the room and gave the baby to Gertrude Tennant. 



CHAPTER XII. 

TOBIAS AND THE ANGELS. 

IT was a grey day. The rain made bars shut- 
ting Dunstane in from the outside world. The 
steps on the passages were muffled and heavy 
with damp. The rain dulled the roar of the 
traffic too, the voice of that human sea that 
moaned around, never resting; tossing and surg- 
ing along the streets of the city casting up mire 
and dirt. It hid the skies, drawing its curtains 
across the window-panes. 

Dunstane's sofa was strewn with papers as 
usual, but he was not writing. His eyes roved 
about the fire in the grate, the pictures over 
the mantelpiece ; the Madonna, Tobias and the 
angels. 

He was getting used to them now. The beauty 
of the Madonna face was slowly making its way 
to his heart. He liked the other picture, too. ' 

It was pleasant to look at Tobias being led forth 
132 



TOBIAS AND THE ANGELS, 

by the angels. His fancy read meanings into the 
picture. 

Tobias was the New Religion ; the angels be- 
side him were Faith and Hope. Whence were 
they leading him? Tobias was the Great Work 
itself, and Success led it by the hand . . . He 
himself was Tobias, and the Angel that led him 
was Priscilla? 

No, certainly not Priscilla! 

It was strange that no one saw any difference 
in Priscilla's conduct since the birth of the child. 
The change was more than evident to him . . . 
she no longer cared to listen to his ideals and 
aspirations ; talk of his book openly bored her. 
. . . She cared for nothing but the child . . . yes, 
and her writing . . . When she was not nursing 
the baby she was at her endless manuscripts. 
She had no time for him . . . But he could not 
complain of her neglect . . he had everything 
that she could give, and she studied his comfort. 
Every day she planned some change to break the 
monotony of his life : a new book, clean curtains, 
an alteration in the furniture, the meals. Her 
ingenuity was endless. She managed the house 
admirably, triumphant over London grime. 
Everything about them was dainty and clean. 
If he had not had the tramp of heavy boots on 
133 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

the steps and the coarseness of the voices to 
remind him that he lived in Regent's Buildings, 
it would have been easy to imagine himself in an 
elegant flat in Kensington. 

He did not miss cultured society cither. Miss 
Cardrew, who appreciated genius, could always 
spare an hour to read or talk to him : she liked 
nothing better than to discuss his book with 
him. She was a woman of taste. He liked to 
see her eyes light up at his eloquence: she 
gave him tribute of tears. And she took a 
great interest in the book; she was not like 
Priscilla, who had ceased to believe in it. 

He was still preparing to begin the New Relig- 
ion ; every day he was busy with the notes he had 
made at the British Museum, sorting, indexing, 
arranging . . . and Miss Cardrew had a capital 
memory . . . Every day Maiden brought him 
the paper and gave up half-an-hour to its discus- 
sion. The superiority of the Conservative lent 
weight to Momcrie's arguments; but he had not 
converted Maiden from his Radicalism. He and 
Priscilla were hopeless red rags . . . Gertrude 
Tcnnant had more sense, though she had lately 
lowered her Standard to the Clironiclc. She 
was otherwise a fine girl. She supplied him with 
flowers and never thought it a trouble to sing to 

134 



TOBIAS AND THE ANGELS. 

him . . . The other women were good decent 
souls after their lights. They pitied and made 
much of him, and could admire his energy in 
working while so helpless ... If Priscilla and 
the baby had not been jarring notes he might 
have found life harmonious enough. 

His wife was the only person in the Buildings 
who was not impressed by his qualities . . . 
He felt that she would have cared more for him 
if he had been making five hundred a year . . . 
Strange that so young a woman should have so 
mercenary a spirit. No one seeing her gentle 
ways would have suspected her of sordidness . . . 
But it was true ; she cared for nothing but 
money, ambition, and the child. 

If the baby had been healthy it would have 
made a difference ; but a sickly child could be 
nothing but a drag upon them. He suspected 
that Priscilla had already begun to feel it. She 
had lost her gaiety and spirit. Sometimes her 
face was even haggard. She only looked happy 
when the child was in her arms. It was absurd 
that she could not bear it out of her sight . . . 
To-day now, was it a fit day to take a delicate 
child out? Yet she would not be persuaded . . . 
obstinate girl . . . 

He looked up again at the picture . . . He 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

might be Tobias, but Priscilla was not the Angel 
. . . that was certain. 

He heard her stamping on the landing to shake 
the rain from her cloak ; then she went into the 
kitchen to remove her wet things. She had worn 
a sailor hat black and shiny and waterproof, and 
a caped ulster. She could not spare an arm for 
an umbrella, and the cape protected Dollie. He 
watched her as she entered the sitting-room. 
The colour that the wind had splashed on her 
face, the child she carried, her alert air,' suggested 
a picture of Life pausing on the threshold. 

" I am afraid you have thought me long, Dun- 
stanc, but it rained so it was not easy to get on." 

" The child must be wet through." 

She looked down at her bundle, smiling. 

" No indeed! I took care of that." 

" I wanted you to find a paper for me ... I 
don't know where it is ... probably in one of the 
drawers in the bedroom.'' 

"I will look for it as soon as I have given 
Dollie her lunch and put her to sleep." 

Dunstane closed his eyes and turned his face 
to the wall. That was always the way; Dollie 
first ... He and his work were of no conse- 
quence whatever. He did well to be angry. 

lie missed the picture that Priscilla made sit- 
136 



TOBIAS AND THE ANGELS. 

ting on the low chair before the fire ; the little 
white face pressed against her white bosom, the 
love in the head bending, the firelight making the 
raindrops in her hair a glittering crown. 

Presently she rose and began to walk about. 

" I am so sorry, dear. This little naughty 
thing will not go to sleep." 

She smiled tenderly as she said it. 

' ' I am at a standstill for the want of that 
paper," he said sulkily. 

"Yes, dear, I know . . . but in a few min- 
utes . . ." 

"Give the child to me ... I will hold her 
while you get it . . ." 

Priscilla stared at him, not believing her ears. 
It was six months since Dollie had come, and he 
had never wanted to touch her. He discoursed 
on the beauty and mystery of motherhood and 
the dignity of fatherhood, was eloquent on the 
loveliness of infancy ; but he had never looked at 
the child since the first day . . . Her arms tight- 
ened about the baby ... a sudden jealousy was 
in her heart . . . Then she went over and gave 
Dollie to him without a word. The little face 
puckered up as he took her. He shook his finger 
at her Dollie stretched out her hand and caught 
the finger and put it in her mouth. 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" You little thing! " said Dunstane, pleased. 

Priscilla had to look a long time before she 
found the paper he wanted ; but he was not im- 
patient. The tiny grasp held him captive, send- 
ing the blood through his veins ... If it had 
not been for the colourlessness of her face, Dollie 
would have been pretty . . . but she was a nice 
little thing. She seemed to like staring at him 
with her big eyes. And now they were dosing. 

Still sucking his finger, Dollie fell asleep. 

When Priscilla came back after a weary hunt, 
Dunstane did not want the paper. And he 
would not have the child disturbed. He could 
hold her quite well . . . She was a nice little 
thing. 

Priscilla said nothing, but her eyes brightened 
and clung to the baby. She stooped and kissed 
her. Then, a second thought, she kissed Dun- 
stane. 

138 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE NEW RELIGION. 

MALDEN was having one of his "At Homes." 
The curtains were drawn, the lamps lighted. 
The red shades gave warmth and colour to the 
blank corners. 

Some praying-rugs were on the floor and on 
the divan ; their tones were repeated in cushion 
and curtain. His easel stood apart: the can- 
vases on the wall were like irregular features on 
a white face. Swords, a skull, and other stock- 
in-trade were disposed for ornamentation. A 
screen stood on one side, brown paper only, but 
the medallions and miniatures that hung upon it 
gave it artistic value. At the end of the room 
was the picture he had painted on the wall for 
Jimmy Gibson, the procession of angels carrying 
lilies. And the flame of the wood-fire reddened 
the white of robe and flower. 

Near the divan the people were grouped; . 
139 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

half a dozen men, artists, students, journalists; 
Miss Cardrew, Gertrude, Priscilla, and Dollie. 

Maiden had wheeled Dunstane in. He was 
propped up on the divan and they were listening 
to him. He talked on. The men forgot their 
cigars and leaned forward, their eyes bright. 
His philosophy of life was new and strange and 
wonderful. This religion of his opened green 
paths to their feet ... it lured them upward . . . 
showed them glittering spaces. Earth dropped 
in the lower night . . . They were among the 
stars. 

Miss Cardrew listened weeping, but softly, lest 
the fall of a tear should stun that delicate elo- 
quence. Gertrude heard him, her hands knitted, 
her bosom heaving. He gave her wings . . . she 
soared. Everything was possible, nothing im- 
possible Success? Fame? . . . They were hers 
. . . Faith and Hope gave royally . . . 

Dunstane stopped, and the earth was about 
them again. Ashamed of their emotion the men 
fell apart. When the circle re-formed, Priscilla, 
holding the little pale baby, was the central 
figure. 

"When I write a book," she said dreamily, 
" I shall call it The Book of the Great City. The 

pages will be white with the faces of children ..." 

140 



7W.fi: NEW RELIGION. 

"Tell us about your book," said Maiden 
huskily. 

So Priscilla told them. 

They came closer to hear her; and she told 
them how, as she went about the streets, she 
heard always the sob of pity and of death. In 
the faces passing her she saw hungry souls that 
cried with a great cry . . . and no man cared for 
their souls . . . 

She made them hear the moaning of the great 
human sea; she made them look at the white 
faces of men and women and children drifting 
past ; she made them hear the cry of the drown- 
ing and the laugh of those that passed them, 
pitiless . . . She made them see the agony of 
those who heard and would have helped, but were 
powerless . . . 

She showed them success and failure . . . the 
price that men paid for their souls . . . the thirty 
pieces of silver for which they betrayed the God 
in them . . . Some of them returned and cast the 
money at the feet of the priests . . . They built 
churches . . . and then went out and hanged 
themselves . . . 

She lifted the lid from the coffin of a dead 
woman, and made them look . . . The man that 

had laid her there passed the parish hearse on his 

141 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

way to church. He had a white flower in his 
button-hole; there were white favors on the 
horses. It w r as his wedding-day . . . 

She led them from city to suburb ; from the 
crowded living people shuffling each other into 
the earth that they might have space for breath, 
to the crowded dead people shuffling each other 
out of the earth that they might have room for 
death . . . 

They followed her West and East, through the 
sun and the rain, among the faces that misery 
whitened, among the faces that misery painted 
... It was the same flesh, but the misery that 
was not painted was less miserable . . . 

The tears were scorched on Miss Cardrcw's 
cheeks; the eyes of the men were dull, their 
hearts burning. Gertrude's eyes glittered . . . 
there was something brighter than the stars ; it 
lay in the mud at her feet. 

The talk became general . . . across those dark 
clouds wit played like summer lightning; meteor 
stories trailed . . . Pathos that cackled with 
laughter, humour whose eyes held tears, took 
their place in the group. The men talked as 
they talked at their clubs. Miss Cardrew's sen- 
timent was like a sprig of thyme in the button- 
hole of a frock-coat. 

142 



THE NEW RELIGION. 

After a while Gertrude sang. When she had 
finished they clamoured . . . She sang on and on. 

Priscilla slipped away with Dollie and did not 
return. The room was suddenly chill. Maiden 
stirred the wood. The divan was in shadow, but 
the flame flickered on the procession of angels 
carrying lilies. 



" The man is a genius," said Gertrude. 

"He is more than that," Miss Cardrew an- 
swered ; " he is a prophet, a priest, a king ..." 

" I shouldn't go so far," said Gertrude dispas- 
sionately. ' ' Though the poet may be all the 
three . . . and he is a poet." 

" He is a humbug! " said Maiden. 

They did not notice him. 

" He surpassed himself last night; I could not 
sleep until morning," said Miss Cardrew. 

" Nor I ... Priscilla stirred me more, but her 
husband has a strange power." 

" He is the biggest humbug I know ..." 
Maiden repeated in a louder key. " He talks 
all day of sacrifice . . . then he offers up his 
wife." 

"You are quite wrong ! " said Gertrude hotly. 
" He is devoted to her." 
143 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

" He devotes her to himself," Maiden sneered. 

" I don't like to hear you speak like that, Mr. 
Maiden," said Miss Cardrew. "The patience 
and cheerfulness with which Mr. Momerie has 
borne his terrible affliction are a lesson to us 
all." 

"Do you think he feels it?" Maiden asked 
cynically. 

The two women turned upon him 

" Feels it? . . . Inhuman! " cried the spinster. 

" How would you like to lie there all day? a 
strong man ..." Gertrude choked. She looked 
reproachfully at him. 

" If he were a strong man," said Maiden . . . 
" But he is not; he is a weak fool ..." 

"You forget that he is our dear Priscilla's 
husband," said Miss Cardrew with dignity. 

"It is the only thing I remember about 
him." 

" I never heard you unkind before," said Ger- 
trude. " I think it is terrible to see him lying 
there working at his book; eager, hopeful . . . 
never tired, never impatient . . ." 

"If he were a man he would work at some- 
thing else," said Maiden. 

" How can he? What is there for a helpless 

paralytic to do? " 

144 



THE NEW RELIGION. 

Miss Cardrew's white front bobbed about, 
showing her indignation. 

" He could undertake tuition by correspond- 
ence ... he could get reviewing to do ... write 
literary articles . . . He could learn to make bas- 
kets like the blind old fellow downstairs ... he 
could sit on the pavement with a tin can on his 
chest and a placard inviting charity. It would 
be more dignified than his present position ..." 
Maiden got up and paced about angrily. 

" Mr. Maiden, you shock me . . . indeed you 
do ! You forget that Mr. Momerie is giving to 
the world a New Religion." 

' ' And what good will his new religion do the 
world when he has given it ? ... What is his new 
religion but the old religion, minus love? ... It 
is like the man to have left out the greatest thing 
of all ... He builds his arch without a keystone. 
He sends his balloon among the stars. There is 
no god in the car . . . nothing but gas." 

"If he were a humbug, don't you think a 
woman like Priscilla would have found it out long 
ago? "said Gertrude hesitatingly. " Look how 
devoted to him she is ... I wanted her to come 
to tea to-day, but just because he said he would 
miss her she wouldn't come." 

"She goes nowhere," said Miss Cardrew; 
145 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" her devotion and self-sacrifice are beautiful . . . 
But she has her reward in being privileged to 
serve such a man." 

"A privilege indeed! " Maiden echoed. 

"Ah, yes, indeed it is so ... If he had not 
our dear Priscilla there is nothing I should esteem 
more highly than to be permitted to take him to 
some sheltered spot and watch over him while he 
finished his great work . . ." 

"Finished, Miss Cardrew! He has not even 
begun it yet, confound him ! " 

" Oh, I assure you, Mr. Maiden, I saw the first 
page myself ... It was beautifully written, ' The 
New Religion, by Dunstane Momerie,' in Old 
English characters. ' Begun November 3d, 1891 ' 
. . . that was the date of his marriage ... he has 
such pretty ideas ..." 

"And what else? "asked Maiden. 

"There was nothing else. The page was 
blank. But knowing the man, we know what 

will follow . . ." 

146 









CHAPTER XIV. 

IN THE STUDIO. 

MALDEN uncovered his picture and stood be- 
fore it with critical eyes. Yes, it was good ; he 
was not deceiving himself . . . Pity it was too 
late for this year's Academy . . . He had never 
done work as true . . . The technical part 
well, of course that might be better; but the 
whole thing, the expression, the pathos how had 
he caught it? 

There was a lump in his throat as he gazed. 
It was not the Madonna he had imagined. 
There was no girlish beauty in this face ... it 
was not the Priscilla that had come to Regent's 
Buildings a year and a half ago. Where had he 
caught that wonderful look? 

Dollie was in her arms ; but the expression on 
her face was not the young-mother love he had 
intended to paint . . . Mary's eyes, when she 
stood on Calvary, must have looked like the eyes 
on his canvas. Neither happiness nor youth was 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEM 

there. Life was drowning in the depths of their 
pain. Despair shrieked from their silence. 

"A Nineteenth-Century Madonna" he had 
called it. It was a fitting name for a haggard 
Civilization holding the babe Want. 

His heart was stirred as he gazed. 

He had loved her so long from the moment 
he had first seen her. He would have laid down 
his life for her . . . but he must stand outside 
and see her suffer . . . Society forbade him to 
pass the barrier that divided her from his help. 
Here was a woman drowning, going down in the 
black waters of despair, and because he was a 
man he must not spring to save her. Though 
he loved her to a thousand deaths, he must not 
put out his hand to rescue her . . . "If the man 
was murdering her in the fashion in which hus- 
bands usually murder their wives I would be par- 
doned if I stopped him . . . But because he is 
doing it delicately, without poker or knife, I 
must not interfere. He is killing her by inches 
. . . and those women stand by applauding ..." 

She was so young to be sacrificed ... If he 
might give her even so little as his sympathy, 
surely it would bring the light back to her eyes, 
the colour to her lips . . . Everything was going 

her beauty, her youth, even her child. 
148 



IN THE STUDIO. 

He gulped down his trouble. 

How those women could look at Dollie and 
not break their hearts! . . . Her heart was break- 
ing, but she hid it from them all ... It was his 
love that had peered behind the mask . . . And 
while Dollie died she had to strive and strain and 
slave that her husband might enjoy his idleness 
his New Religion. 

He laughed bitterly. If he had not begged 
the favour of that hour a day, when she sat to 
him with Dollie in her arms, she would scarcely 
have known what it was to brood over the little 
face. 

It was almost time for her to come in now . . . 
He smoothed out the lines of trouble from his 
forehead ; whistled softly that he might appear 
gay . . . drew a chair forward and shook up its 
cushions . . . put the bowl of violets where she 
would smell them. When Priscilla came in she 
found a tall man in a shabby coat who had 
kind eyes, and a manner casual almost to dis- 
courtesy. 

But he had noticed her tired droop. 

She stood beside him looking at the can- 
vas. 

" It is beautiful . . . the very image of the 

little maid . . . Dollie herself . . . my white 
149 



THE YEARS TffA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

flower . . . But but do I look like that? so 
hungry and wan and ill? " 

" It is like no one else, Mrs. Momerie." 

" I must be growing very old." 

" It is not that you look old . , . it is the sad- 
ness . . . Last year you were so bright ..." 

" I think I had a merry heart then . . . But 
now it is hard to be glad ... I have never seen 
my little baby smile . . . Think of it, Mr. 
Maiden . . . Dollie is seven months old and she 
hasn't learned to smile yet . . . But I think she 
is growing . . . don't you? " 

"Bravely," he lied heroically. "She only 
wants the sun to bring the colour to those pale 
cheeks." 

" Yes, I know," said Priscilla eagerly. " The 
spring js very trying in these Buildings ... I 
feel it myself. She should be out all day, only 
there is so much to do. I have been wondering 
if I might trust Jimmy Gibson. He might sit at 
the door holding her, I think. The other babies 
are pale . . . but not like my Dollie . . . On the 
steps she would get the sun and air." 

"A capital plan . . . Jimmy is to be trusted 
with anything of yours, Mrs. Momerie even 
Dollie." 

" I think he is." 

150 



IN THE STUDIO. 

The eagerness passed from her face. She 
sank down in her chair. She was always tired 
now. 

Maiden took up palette and brush and painted 
in silence. 

"All that Dollie wants is colour," said Pris- 
cilla wistfully, as if thinking aloud. " She has 
never been ill and she seldom cries. She is so 
good, lying looking at me with her solemn big 
eyes ... I think I love her more than if she had 
had a merry heart ... So fragile she is ... I 
am glad you have painted her ... It will be 
nice to think of it when she is a great, rosy, romp- 
ing girl . . . But I shall be sorry when you have 
finished . . . The time I sit here with Dollie is 
the best hour of the day." 

" I want to paint a companion to this," said 
Maiden eagerly. " I was going to ask you to sit 
again ... I want another study of Dollie." 

" I think you love my little baby." 

" No one but you loves her more than I do, 
Mrs. Momerie, no one . . ." 

Maiden had squeezed the whole of a tube of 
rose madder on to his palette before he dis- 
covered what he was doing. 

" Do you know," said Priscilla softly, "Dun- 
stane is getting quite fond of her. In fact he 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

has her now all the time I am writing; and even 
when I am ready to take her he doesn't want to 
give her up." 

" So you don't have her at all? " He laughed 
harshly. 

" I have her at nights ... I lie awake all night 
that I may feel I have her." 

He had no answer to make, and Priscilla did 
not speak for a time. 

She wondered if that was herself he was paint- 
ing herself as she was, the woman who had 
tasted failure, disappointment, disillusion, the 
bitterness of a loveless life. She who loved 
everybody had not been able to love her husband, 
neither to keep his love. He had passed the 
days of passion . . . there was nothing left of the 
feeling he had had for her. He still needed her, 
but it was only his helplessness that made her 
necessary to him, and it was only his helplessness 
that made her give him the attention she had 
once given heartily and loyally. 

" Do you remember the chalk study that you 
made of me when I was first married? " she asked. 

Yes, he remembered it ; lie had it still. 

" I wonder if you would let me look at it ; I 
should like to compare them this picture with 

that." 

152 



IN THE STUDIO. 

He brought it from the oak chest and put it 
on the easel beside the Madonna. Then he 
stepped backward and stood behind Priscilla's 
chair and they compared the two ; the happi- 
ness of the girl, the anguish of the woman. 

" Was I ever like that? " she asked wonder- 
ingly. " Was I ever so happy? " 

"I like the last better," he said hoarsely, 
turning his eyes away from the pitiful contrast. 
"I would not change the Madonna for the 
Maiden . . . That girl did not know what love 
was. 

"And yet I was happy! But that can't be 
the reason . . . no, it can't! else this last picture 
would be young and smiling too . . . for still I 
don't know what love is ... I only know the 
ache and hunger and anguish of wanting it . . ." 
She drew the child closer ..." But I have my 
little baby . . . Thank God ! I have my little 
baby ..." she said passionately. 

Maiden stood behind her chair, keeping from 
her his white face, his strangling breath . . . He 
knew her secret now the secret that he had 
guessed months ago . . . She was hungry for 
love and he had so much to give her . . . 

He turned his head, away. His eyes were 
upon the procession of angels carrying lilies. 
153 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

' Do you know," he said gravely, " I am sure 
it is not that which makes the difference between 
the two pictures. It is something deeper than 
happiness or or the want of love." 

"I don't know what it can be," she said 
wearily. 

" It is love itself." 

154 



CHAPTER XV. 

A NEW SONG. 

AND so the tragedy acted itself out ; the sor- 
did little tragedy that is enacted every moment 
of the year on the London boards. The tragedy 
of life and of death. It was Priscilla who took the 
leading part in the grim play at No. 30 Regent's 
Buildings, who saw most clearly the meaning of 
the tragedy. She had awakened after the first 
act. Now scene by scene she watched the devel- 
opments clustering round the principal characters 
the strong woman bound for life to a weakling, 
a faint outline of man. The pathos and pity of 
it were not lessened for her because she knew 
that the same tragedy was being played out in 
the lives round her on many a household hearth. 
Her sad eyes read failure on every page of her 
life. 

She was writing now for any market. She 
brought forth stories that were agony and humili- 
ation to her; poor, pitiful romances that had not 
a drop of red blood in their rickety bodies; 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

anaemic little creatures that were not stillborn 
only because they had learned to adapt themselves 
to their life conditions. She brought forth these 
children of her pen in shame ; they were illegiti- 
mate offspring fathered by want. She had laid 
down the pride of life youth and health, joy 
and hope had already gone that the child she 
loved might live. It was for Dollie that she was 
working. She had blinded her eyes and told her- 
self that the child throve ; but her heart wore no 
bandages; and as the summer came on, making 
the white cheeks more waxen and transparent, 
all her cry was to take the child away out of the 
heat into the country. 

She told Dunstane of the necessity. He met 
her more than half-way and talked royally of the 
holiday they would have when his book came 
out. 

She turned from him in bitterness . . . How 
many times might Dollie die before that immortal 
myth came to their help ! 

And still she was growing more tolerant of 
Dunstane. The baby gave her a new view of 
him, showing kind traits in his disposition. He 
was tender, gentle as a woman, with more than a 
woman's patience. His love for Dollie appealed 
to her. He was never tired of having the child 

156 



A NEW SONG. 

beside him. He said it was better for her to lie 
sucking his finger than to sprawl neglected on the 
mat. Priscilla quieted her jealousy. It made 
her task easier to know that Dollie was being 
looked after while she scrubbed and cleaned and 
cooked and wrote. She had less of Dollie, but 
Dunstane no longer hurt her by his neglect of the 
child, and she drew nearer to him. She might 
yet love her child's father, she thought wistfully. 
She could not take the baby's fingers in hers 
without touching his hand. In the rare moments 
of idleness, when Dunstane would not give up 
Dollie, she brought her hassock close to the sofa 
and leaned her head beside Dollie's Dunstane's 
head was on the same pillow.- And they had a 
subject in common now. Dunstane began to talk 
less of his great work and more about Dollie. 
Priscilla listened happily to the dreams he wove 
around the child. She could have gazed for hours 
on the rosy future he painted. There was noth- 
ing unreal or fanciful in these visions . . . Who 
should inherit the Kingdom of Heaven, if not her 
baby? ... Of such was the Kingdom . . . 

Dunstane was really wonderfully patient and 
cheerful. The only change in his life was an oc- 
casional visit to Maiden's studio. He never went 
out of the Buildings. The long flights of stairs 
157 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

would have made it a heavy task to have carried 
him down, and there was no lift. Maiden had 
offered to rig up a pulley and lower him over the 
balustrades in his chair, but Dunstane had not 
accepted the offer. He was quite happy in his 
prison. " Priscilla's lark" the little spinster 
called him. The only time he grumbled was 
when Priscilla carried Dollie downstairs and with 
many tremors laid her on Jimmy Gibson's knee 
where he sat sunning himself on the doorstep. 
But Priscilla let him grumble. She yielded to 
his slightest whim where she was concerned, but 
she would not sacrifice her baby . . . She, at 
least, should not be a victim. 

After the first day she was not afraid of trust- 
ing Jimmy with the baby. He took literally her 
caution that he was not to stir, and sat cramped 
and stiff sooner than risk a movement that might 
hurt Mrs. Momerie's baby. To Jimmy Mrs. 
Momerie was a vision of angels. It was her 
coming to the Buildings that had brought the 
sun into his life. Till she set the fashion, no one 
had ever thought it worth while to notice him 
during his mother's absence, though they had 
been kind to him while he was ill. Now he was 
invited to sit in Mr. Maiden's studio and talk of 

Mrs. Momerie while the artist worked. Miss 

158 



A NEW SONG, 

Tennant's flat, too, that paradise of art screens 
and down cushions, was a blissful reality to him 
now. Gertrude liked the flattery of his rapt face 
while she sang ; and she had found out that he 
had a pretty voice of his own. 

Miss Cardrew had always had a kind word for 
him, but it was only since Mrs. Momerie had 
come to the Buildings that she had catered for 
his little stomach. He liked the mild stories she 
told him, but he liked more the gingerbread and 
peppermints that now sometimes came his way. 
He would have suffered much more for Mrs. Mo- 
merie than that half-hour's cramp while he nursed 
Dollie, sitting on the step in the sun. Besides, 
at the end of his penance, Mrs. Momerie always 
gave him a kiss which he wiped off and said, 
" Thank you, Jimmy. What a dear, useful little 
chap you are ! 

Every day Dunstane grumbled about the ar- 
rangement. He was nervous about the child, he 
said. Priscilla told him he was growing fussy 
but she loved him for it. 

Her spirits were coming back. Though she 
did not acknowledge it, it made her work lighter 
to give up the child to Dunstane ; and the half- 
hours on the doorstep brought a faint rose to 
Dollie's cheek and a glow of hope to the mother's 
159 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

heart. The new interest between Dunstane and 
herself was a promise of still better things. She 
could face the future without fear. 

One thing lay heavy on Priscilla's heart. Dun- 
stane would not allow her to take Dollie to St. 
Pancras to be baptised. The rector had visited 
them. But when Dunstane spoke of his New 
Religion Mr. Groves had listened disapprovingly. 
Finally he had rebuked the man's iconoclasm. 
Dunstane might call the ancient faith an image 
and destroy it. But the old truths were of gold, 
and the image was made in the likeness of God. 
This new religion of his was no religion at all, but 
a vague and formless philosophy. And it would 
be better for Dunstane that a millstone should be 
hanged about his neck, and he should be cast into 
the depths of the sea, than be allowed to give to 
the world a hollow mockery of truth. 

Dunstane was mortally offended, and Mr. Groves 
came no more to No. 30 Regent's Buildings. 
But when Priscilla spoke of her wish that Dollie 
should be baptised, he reminded her that she had 
been content with his decision as to their mar- 
riage at the registrar's. That silenced her; but 
she resolved that Dollie should have her name 
given to her in church when they went to the 

country. That trip to the country was coming 

1 60 



A NEW SONG. 

within measuring distance. She had had unex- 
pected good fortune in being asked to write a 
serial for High Life. 

It would be hurried work ; the manuscript must 
be in the publisher's hands by the end of July, 
but it would be paid for on delivery. The price 
was 20. It was wealth to Priscilla. Working 
early and late, for months she had not earned 
more than thirty shillings a week. This would 
more than pay for Dollie's trip to the sun. They 
would remove to some village near and spend a 
month out-of-doors. She could go on with her 
writing. Dunstane and Dollie would lie under 
the trees while she worked. 

Hope came back to Priscilla's heart and life to 
her face. She was a different person from the 
weary woman who had sat in Maiden's studio. 
Since Dollie had been born she had never been 
so happy. 

Her pen flew over the paper. She had no time 
to give to her friends ; but they saw her bright 
face and the light came to more than one heart 
in Regent's Buildings. 

Dunstane was as excited as she over the serial. 
It held a whole universe of possibilities in it ... 
Twenty pounds! But it took more time than 

Priscilla had expected. Sixty thousand words, 
161 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

and she had only fifteen days longer! But she 
rode her hack recklessly. Dollie's hands held 
the whip. 



It was Dunstane who told her he thought the 
little thing could not be well. She was always 
quiet and pale, but he thought her face had a 
grey shadow on it to-day. 

Priscilla snatched up the child, devouring it 
with her eyes . . . She saw nothing wrong and 
gave her back to Dunstane ; but her work came 
to a standstill. She could not write . . . Dollie's 
white face was on every page . . . 

At last she could bear it no longer; every 
moment was of value. To-morrow the story must 
be in the hands of the editor . . . She must save 
time by giving up an hour to her fears . . . 

In an hour she had returned from Dr. Barker's, 
joyful in her great relief. She took off the shawl 
in which she had wrapped Dollie and laid her 
again on the sofa. 

' ' Nothing wrong at all ! Teething ! ' ' she cried 
rapturously. " My little Dollie is going to have 
some little white teeth. She is beginning to be 
a great girl . . . She will have to try and grow fat 

and rosy ..." 

162 



A NEW SONG. 

She sat down to her manuscript, working the 
better for the break. . . "One more day, and 
my Dollie will go to the sun," she sang. 

She was writing all that night, but could not 
overtake the end of the story, and the next 
morning Dollie was fretful. Her wail went to 
Priscilla's heart . . . She took her on her knee, 
nursing her as she wrote. " My Dollie will soon 
be better . . . she is going to the sun," she whis- 
pered happily. 

In a fever of excitement she began the last 
chapter. She could not stop to eat. 

Miss Cardrew came in and gave Dunstane his 
lunch, stepping gingerly on tiptoe so as not to 
disturb Priscilla. She was going out of town 
for the afternoon ; the heat tried her. At two 
o'clock Priscilla threw down her pen, lifted the 
child and sang her new song joyfully. 

" My Dollie is going to the sun! " 

She would not stay for food though Miss 
Cardrew had left a tray ready for her before she 
went away. She would go to the office, receive 
her cheque, cash it before the bank closed at 
four, come home, pack up ... and " To-morrow, 
to-morrow my Dollie shall go to the sun." 

She laid her down beside Dunstane, kissed the 

little white face, the waxen hands. 

163 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Then she hurried away. Her errand would 
not take her long . . . Her feet sped, her face 
smiled . . . She would have liked to shout her 
happy secret. The moan of the great sea was 
silenced by that chime of bells "My Dollie is 
going to the sun." 

Dunstane lay on the sofa where she had left 
him ; his writing materials on one side, Dollie 
on the other, sleeping quietly. In an hour she 
would be awake, Priscilla had said, but she her- 
self would be back by that time. 

" An hour for my work," Dunstane had re- 
marked as she left him. He turned from his 
child to his notes, and fingered them discon- 
tentedly. They were not what he wanted ; and 
how could he get others, unable as he was to go 
to the British Museum Library, or to buy books? 
He looked them over lazily, and the impotence 
of inaction settled down upon him. It was 
growing pleasant to him, however, this fruitless 
dallying with the writing that excused his idle- 
ness. He liked it better chan the thought of 
coaching pupils. 

He turned over his memoranda for the tenth 
chapter: "The Position of Women among the 
Jews." 

" At any rate I can do that," he muttered. 

164 



A NEW SONG. 

"It's only to draw on my memory of Old Tes- 
tament history a mere grind. How insuffer- 
able the whole question has become ! I cannot 
imagine that I ever took any interest in social 
topics. If I have an audience they are well 
enough, but in themselves ..." 

He lost himself in complacent recollections of 
that last evening at Maiden's. Then he pulled 
himself together, and began speaking his 
thoughts aloud. 

"Take a few of the types among women of 
the Old Testament. There was Sara, merely 
the childbearer. Sons were the great need of 
those times ; sons to fight, to protect the cattle, 
to feed them ; sons to increase and multiply that 
the heathen might be overpowered. The social 
problem of that time was the struggle between 
the Jews and their heathen neighbours; and 
hence the importance of women. Then how it 
developed! Miriam, the prophetess, the. singer 
who inspired the army ; Deborah, a singer too, 
and a judge, yet also a mother in Israel; and 
Jael, who bought forty years of peace with one 
stroke of a hammer. Then, in the prosperous 
years, her place is changed and we have her in 
domestic love, as in the case of Michal for David. 
Her position sinks lower in his passion for Bath- 
165 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

sheba ; and lower again in the harems of Solo- 
mon. 

"That was largely the position of women at 
the beginning of this century, and, with all their 
efforts, they have scarcely bettered it. What, 
indeed, is their place in the social questions of 
to-day? If they are not wives, they are nothing. 
Look at Priscilla, for instance ; an abnormal crea- 
ture except in her domestic relations ..." 

Dollie stirred uneasily and choked a little, but 
he did not hear. 

"And yet," he went on, "she has no destiny 
apart from her life with me. Dollie should take 
a higher place than that in history. I must train 
her into being the typical woman of the day." 

Dollie choked again, turned, stretched a rigid 
little arm towards Dunstane, but he was too ab- 
sorbed in his subject to notice her. 

" What does the age want? A son-bearer ? 
Yes, we must have sons ; yes, and a prophetess 
who shall have the vision of truth upon her eye- 
balls, and shall proclaim it to the ignorant 
struggling people. We must have a Deborah 
who shall lead them to their just inheritance, a 
Jacl who shall strike ..." 

A loud wail, a sob of agony broke upon Dun- 

stane's words. He turned quickly and saw a 

1 66 



A NEW SONG. 

grey cloud upon Dollie's face ; he saw her limbs 
twitch and writhe strangely. 

He put his hand on her head, patting her 
softly, but he could not quiet her. 

"I am afraid she is ill," he said anxiously. 
"And lam helpless. If I could call Maiden 
now or Mrs. Gibson . . ." 

He rapped on the wall. There was no answer. 
The child grew worse. 

" It looks like convulsions," he said, getting 
pale; "if she should die ... I must call some 
one . . . Mrs. Markham ! . . . Maiden ! . . . Miss 
Cardrew! . . ." he shouted. 

He waited. The shadow on Dollie's face had 
passed from grey to black. He sprang up from 
his sofa and rushed to the door. Then suddenly 
he remembered that he had not walked for 
months. With the memory his helplessness re- 
turned, and he fell to the floor. 

He was almost relieved to find himself lying 
on the matting : it proved that he was still para- 
lysed. He was not anxious to end his life of 
inaction. He had grown accustomed to its 
monotony; and as an invalid author he filled a 
more important place in his world than would be 
given to an unsuccessful tutor. 

After all it was a good thing no one had seen 

167 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

him walk. He must get back to the couch and 
see what could be done for the child. He 
dragged himself to the sofa, and bent towards 
the baby. She was quiet now ; her colour was 
more natural. 

Pshaw ! What a fool he had been, frightened 
at nothing! She would be all right till her 
mother returned. 

He lay down again beside her, and became 
absorbed in himself and in the thought of what 
his recovery would mean. 

After a time he glanced at the child. How 
still she lay, and how pale her face had grown ! 
He put out his hand and touched her softly. 
Dollie was dead. 

There was only an empty horror in his mind 
as he lay there with the silent little figure beside 
him : he must bear its dumb reproach. The last 
hour had been charged with a rush of sensations, 
with fear and dread, love for his child, and with 
his own strong love for himself. And sweeping 
down upon that love came a fierce shaft of light 
striking him to the very earth. 

Beside him was Death, cold and still and terri- 
ble ; within was Light, strong, compelling. He 
saw himself, the coward, the hypocrite, the ab- 
ject slave of vanity, idleness, deceit. 

168 



A NEW SONG. 

His soul lay bare in the white clearness of that 
flash, and he loathed the ugly sight. He might 
have saved the child. 

As the light forked and died, the words filled 
his ears with deafening thunder. He might have 
saved the child. He shrank down, covering his 

ears and face. 

***** 

Priscilla took a hansom from the bank, laughing 
gaily at the luxury she had purchased. It was 
not for herself that she was extravagant ; though 
now that her work was done she remembered the 
sleepless night, the long fast . . . 

Regent's Buildings looked deadly seen from 
the hansom. The place was always dull in the 
afternoon, when the children were at school 
the elders at their school too. Coming in from 
the glare and heat outside, the silence struck 
Priscilla with a chill. 

She ran up the steps . . . What a long, long 
time it was since she had run up ... certainly not 
since Dollie was born. 

In the hall she threw off her hat and pressed 
into the room sirjging gaily . . . " My Dollie is 
going to the sun ! My Dollie is going to the 
sun ..." 

Dunstane was lying curled up, his face to the 
169 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

wall. He reminded her of a leaf shrivelled by 
storm. He did not look round as usual to tell 
her Dollie was asleep, and she must not take her 
. . . The child would not disturb his work . . . she 
was a nice little thing . . . 

She stooped and lifted her baby, wondering at 
the strange heaviness in the little body . . . She 
stumbled to a chair and sat down, pressing her 
face against the baby's face . . . The cold set her 
shivering . . . laid ice upon her heart . . . She 
gazed at the child with eyes of terror. Her lips 
moved, but no sound came . . . Her teeth chat- 
tered . . . she laughed shrilly ..." My Dollie is 

going to the sun." 

170 



CHAPTER XVI. 

DOLLIE GOES TO THE SUN. 

" FOR God's sake hush, Priscilla! Don't you 
see the child is dead? " 

She stopped her awful mirth, and raised her 
head : ' ' Did you kill my little baby, Dunstane? " 

The words fell involuntarily from her lips. She 
could not tell why she asked the question. But 
it lashed Dunstane into a fury. 

" Kill the little thing? ... I? ... I? ... 
Why did you go? . . . Why did you leave her? 
... I told you she was ill ... You went on 
writing . . . You let your child die for a miser- 
able twenty pounds! ... It is you that killed 
her! . . ." 

"/. . . killed . . . Dollie?" 

" Yes, you ! You, with your confounded writ- 
ing. The child never had a chance . . . even 
before she was born ... A pretty mother you 
have been ! . . . How was she to live, shut up 

here all day while you wrote? ... I told you 
171 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

yesterday she was ill ... Did you stop ? . . . 
Write, write, write ! all night all day . . . 
You need not have left her just now . . . but you 
must get your damned money ! . . . Why did 
you leave me to see her die? . . ." 

Priscilla crushed the child to her bosom . . . 
" If I had been here my baby would not have 
died." She lifted her head with a strange jerk- 
ing motion. Her voice was calm. 

" Don't I tell you so! ... Isn't that what I 
am saying ! . . . My God ! to lie helpless . . . and 
the child in convulsions ..." 

" I think, Dunstane, in your place ..." her 
voice rang strangely even and dispassionate after 
his uncontrolled fury ..." I would have called 
Mr. Maiden . . . He would not have let Dollie 
die." 

" Called? ... I shouted myself hoarse! ... I 
tried to knock on the wall . . . No one heard me 
. . . and the little thing . . . the little thing . . ." 

' ' I think I will go away now, Dunstane. ' ' She 
spoke wearily. 

She stood up, tall and pale. A patch of colour 
stained each cheek, her lips were purple, showing 
the white teeth. She held the child to her bosom 
smiling. 

Dunstane put his hands over his eyes. " What 
172 



DOLL IE GOES TO THE SUN. 

do you look like that for? What are you smiling 
at? Have you no heart? . . . Yes, go away . . . 
You drive me mad ... I can't bear to see 
you ..." 

She went into the kitchen and sat gazing at 
Dollie with eyes that remembered. She was 
living over again the happiness of that Sunday 
afternoon when she had shown her baby to her 
friends. There had been warmth and love and 
flowers around her . . . The lark had sung in the 
window . . . though it was November. 

The kitchen was bare to-day naked boards, 
bare dresser, fireless grate . . . Outside the 
heat was stifling. Inside, Dollie was ice in her 
arms. 

" It's like mother's little byby, wot died." 

She felt again the child's voice, a knife in her 
heart. It clashed against that song of Dollie go- 
ing to the sun. Had she killed her little baby? 
. . . Was it she who had given her the face of a 
dead child before she was born? Dollie had lain 
so warm under her heart . . . she had not been 
cold then . . . like this . . . 

There were voices in the next room . . . She 
could hear them Dunstane's shrill and pitiful, 
. . . Maiden's hoarse answers. 

By-and-by he came in ... He shivered as he 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

saw Priscilla and the child . . . this was what he 
had painted this woman with Calvary in her 
eye, gazing on her dead. Her eyes clung to the 
pity on his face . . . She smiled that strange 
smile. 

He knelt down beside her and took Dollie's 
little hand, stroking it softly. 

"I think you loved my little baby," she 
whispered. 

" My dear! . . . my dear!" 

He laid his head down on her knee beside the 
child's, and his grief went to Priscilla's heart, but 
she did not cry. She touched his hair, soothing 

him. 

***** 

All night long she sat there, holding the child. 
Dunstane had gone to bed ; but her friends could 
not leave her. They were in the sitting-room 
Gertrude, Mrs. Markham, Miss Cardrew, Maiden. 
They kept a sorrowful watch with her . . . though 
Priscilla wanted no one but Dollie . . . 

***** 

" Now, my dear, have a sup of tea, do ! And 
give me the little thing . . . You shouldn't take 
on like this. It's time she was laid out decent, 
little heart!" 

The morning had come. 



DOLLIE GOES 70 THE SUN. 

Priscilla lifted her heavy eyes to Mrs. Mark- 
ham, but she held Dollie closer. 

" I hadn't time to hold her when she wanted 
me . . . Now I have three days . . . three whole 
days . . . three days and three nights in the 
heart of the earth . . . with Dollie." 

# # # * * 

But even those three days were denied her. 

* * * * * 

They were taking Dollie to Frodsham. 

" I should like her to lie in the sun," Priscilla 
said, "under the south wall, close beside my 
own mother ... It won't be so lonely." 

Miss Cardrew and Maiden were going to 
Frodsham with her. Gertrude would stop with 
Dunstane. 

It was Maiden who took Dollie from Priscilla 
at the last, and laid the baby in the white cradle 
of death. 

Miss Cardrew drew her away to put on cloak 
and hat. Then they all gathered in the sitting- 
room round the little coffin. 

Dunstane had turned his head aside; Mrs. 
Markham had gone out to weep over her dead. 

Through the open window came the sounds of 
a barrel organ and the clash of chimes from St. 
Pancras'. Some one was being married. 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Maiden drew down the window, but the merry 
notes would not be silenced. " Sing," he whis- 
pered to Gertrude. 

Her lips opened, and a fugitive line from the 
Elijah came, borne on the chimes. 

" And He shall give thee thy heart's desires . . . 
And He shall give thee . . ." 

Her voice broke and failed. 

***** 

Maiden carried Dollie up the main street of 
Frodsham, past the window where the three Miss 
Speaights stood, not recognising Priscilla . . . 
past the shop with the name Momerie still over 
the door, past the shuttered Rectory into the 
churchyard. 

The sexton met them under the lych-gate. 
The Rector had gone abroad, and the curate 
never read the service over an unbaptised infant 
. . . But everything else was ready . . . 

"My poor, poor darling!" Miss Cardrew's 
tears flowed. 

" It doesn't matter, " said Priscilla. "Dollie 
will lie in the sun." 

They stood watching the little mound grow 
... so fast ... so fast . . . There was a wreath 
of Alpine roses on the grave beside it. Then 



DOLLIE GOES TO THE SUN. 

Maiden put his arm in Priscilla's . . . but she 
drew away, looking back. 

They turned again, and stood where the grass 
had been flattened down by the little feet that 
had never pressed earth before. 

" I should like to say a prayer over Dollie," 
she whispered ..." but I can't remember ... I 
can't remember." She pressed her hands over 
her eyes . . . then she looked up. "The grace 
of our Lord Jesus Christ . . . the love of God . . . 
and . . . and . . . Oh, what comes after? " 

"The life everlasting, Amen," sobbed Miss 

Cardrew. 

177 



CHAPTER XVII. 

MRS. MARKHAM'S TWINS. 

PRISCILLA had lived through July, and now 
August had come. The city was hot and still 
and stifling. The trees bordering the streets were 
grey with dust ; the people under them were grey 
too; their clothes shabbier and dirtier in the 
searching light of a glaring sun. Those who 
could escape had gone out of town ; only the 
very poor and the very busy and the very hope- 
less passed along the streets. And London lay 
panting in the sun, in a gasping wretchedness that 
knew nothing of the airy promise of the spring. 
But Priscilla did not notice it. Her gaze was 
turned inward on her empty heart ; she only felt 
that the city had grown suddenly empty. 

It had grown silent too. The moan of the 
great sea no longer sounded in her ears ; a child's 
wail filled the silence. She held out her arms in 
her loneliness: they missed the sorrowful life 

around her and touched Dollie's cold face. She 

178 



MRS. MARKHAM'S TWINS. 

passed the people in the streets. They were 
miles away from her. She saw their hopeless 
faces, and she thought wearily they were not as 
hopeless as she. They had not lost Dollie. 

She seldom went out, nursing her trouble in- 
doors, in silence, and a reserve that was a wall of 
ice between herself and sympathy. Her eyes 
showed her misery, but none of her friends could 
find words that would comfort. 

Priscilla's thoughts of Dollie's grave were 
hedged about with a memory of the words she 
had said: " The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ 
and the love of God," but they had lost meaning 
for her. She looked at the drama of human life, 
and she was filled with a great bitterness. " Man 
is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward," 
she said to herself ; and as the sparks fly upward 
and die out, so man strains upward to die in 
darkness. To be born, to weep, to disappear 
what a poor little play it is ! 

The oblivion of grief enwrapped her. In her 
thought of the dead she sank into a dreamy for- 
getfulness of the living. Life slipped past. 
Time glided through the shadows a shade him- 
self; Priscilla did not see him. She was tasting 
the deadly poison of inaction ; it numbed her 
brain, giving her the pleasure of the lotus-eater, 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

with the dulness of the lotus-eater. She forgot 
the sweetness of love, the joy of doing. She 
blinded her eyes to the beauty that enthusiasm 
throws around life's monotony ; she turned her 
back on sacrifice that opened the doors into an- 
other life. 

The gravity of eternal things shadowed her 
with an austere and terrible sadness, unrelieved 
by any light of hope. The secrets of life and 
death were a yawning abyss into which her dim 
eyes peered. Up from those ghastly depths 
jutted the sharp rocks of destiny and fate, and 
her eyes saw nothing beside. They missed the 
shining bridge of the " grace of our Lord Jesus 
Christ and the love of God " thrown right across 
the chasm. It was the shortest road by which 
to reach Dollie, but she would not see it. She 
had lost faith in love ; and losing faith in love 
she had lost faith in life. Life seemed to walk 
beside her with the old face, the old form, but it 
was a phantom. Life itself was dead. " We 
must hope in something if we live," and she had 
no hope. 

She had been as weak as the women round her, 
who let themselves go and became slipshod and 
slatternly when life proved too hard for them. 

She was still outwardly self-respecting; but her 

i So 



MRS. MARKHAM'S TWINS. 

heart was down at heel, trailing through the day 
in rags. 

And the more she yielded to her inaction, the 
harder and colder she became to those around 
her; to Dunstane especially, who had turned from 
his Great Work to his Great Loss. All day long 
he wailed cheerfully over his grief, madden- 
ing Priscilla. He gave voice to her thoughts, 
and his words made her own sorrow seem as 
unreal and extravagant as his. He had lost his 
interest in life, he said . . . his one hope . . . 
his great joy . . . There was nothing left to 
live for, to work for. Dollie had inspired all 
that was high in his life . . . and now that she 
was gone . . . 

His moods were elegiac; every period was 
an Ode to Infant Mortality. His eloquence 
purred contentedly above the little dead child. 
All day his tears streamed. He robbed Priscilla 
of the sacred savour of her love. She began to 
wonder if her own grief had not the same quality 
of exaggeration. 

Analysis kills emotion as it kills love; Pris- 
cilla started up breathless, with clenched hands 
and appealing eyes, for now indeed she had lost 
her little baby. 

Then the agony died from her eyes, her hands 

iSi 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH 

unlocked ; she sat down again, white and mute, 
to listen to Dunstane. The loss was all his . . . 
Priscilla had compensations . . . besides, she had 
never loved the child . . . She had been content 
to leave her to him while she pursued her fatal 
chase after money . . . 

Her heart hardened as he talked. She could 
not forgive him, hearing the incessant creaking 
of the wordy cradle in which he rocked his 
grief. 

It was Miss Cardrew who led him from the 
cradle-side into the wastes of the New Religion. 

When the sofa was once more strewn with 
papers, when the women came once more to gaze 
and wonder and admire, the Great Work laid its 
hands upon Mr. Momerie with a benediction of 
forgetfulness. 

Then Priscilla was free to nurse her sorrow 
undisturbed by her husband's lamentations. But 
her freedom came too late. Her thoughts held 
a mocking echo of Dunstane's jeremiads. The 
phrases in which her grief was dressed were tat- 
tered remnants of the crape he had used. 

She despised him now for his easy forgetful- 
ness; yet she followed his example and threw 
herself into work in order to forget. 

She kept the rooms clean and orderly as before. 
182 



MAS. MARKHAM'S TWINS. 

It only cost weary limbs to be tidy, and after- 
wards the neatness was restful. It was a relief to 
come into a clean house from the grime of the 
street. 

When the housework was done she sat at the 
bureau writing. Sometimes she would forget 
and turn round to look at Dollie. Sometimes 
she started up; it was time for the baby's din- 
ner. It was a cruel forgetfulness that work 
brought her . . . Dunstane wondered at the pleas- 
ure she took in the clean rooms and in her writ- 
ing. "She has no heart," he said to himself. 
" It has made no difference to her; she only 
cares for money and comfort." 

So the breach between them opened again. 

" Priscilla, my dear, may I have a little con- 
versation with you in private? " 

Miss Cardrew had a mysterious importance 
about her that gave hostages to surmise ; but 
Priscilla's blank face avoided questions. She led 
the way into the kitchen, Miss Cardrew bobbing 
after her. 

It was November a day full of "colour; it 

was the blaze of the year flaring up before it sank 

into grey ashes. There was a ghostly brilliancy 

in the sunset, an unveiling of red clouds, stormy 

183 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

and suggestive. Fronting the window Priscilla's 
face was suddenly bright. 

"No, I won't sit down, my dear. I wished 
to tell you . . . You have not heard the news, 
then?" 

The little spinster's eyes twinkled eagerly as 
they read the girl's face. 

" I have heard nothing," said Priscilla in a 
voice that said she cared to hear nothing. 

" Have you not? . . . Well, that is strange, 
remarkably strange ... to think I should have 
heard the news before you . . . Will you guess 
what it is, Priscilla? " 

Priscilla's dull eyes quenched Miss Cardrew's 
gaiety. 

" My dear Priscilla," she said solemnly, " Mrs. 
Markham has twins." 

" Has she? " said Priscilla, without a spark of 
interest in her voice. 

" She has indeed ... I ought perhaps to apol- 
ogise for disturbing you . . . but I thought you 
would be interested, my dear." 

"Yes," said Priscilla. 

Miss Cardrew, blinking at her, thought it was 
the red light that had brought a sudden haggard- 
ness into her face. 

"Well, my dear. . . I must go now. For- 
184 



MKS. MARKHAM'S TWINS. 

give my calling you away. The subject was not 
quite an appropriate one to discuss before your 
dear husband ; there is a certain delicacy in men- 
tioning twins. One must observe the proprieties 
in order to maintain a sense of ... of sexual dif- 
ferences." 

" Yes," Priscilla said again monotonously. 

But when Miss Cardrew had hobbled away the 
apathy fell from her face and a hungry look came 
into her eyes. She walked up and down rest- 
lessly, her feet dragging when they neared the 
door. The new little babies in the flat below 
took hold of her. Her thoughts were bitter. 
Twins to Mrs. Markham, already overburdened 
with five, while she whose arms were empty must 
bear her desolation . . . 

She paced up and down, and the more she 
thought the more she longed to see the tiny 
creatures. She had not held a baby since Dollie 
died. She trembled at the idea of another child 
in her arms ; she dreaded the sight of a little 
unfamiliar face bringing back memory . . . And 
yet she wanted to go ; her heart urged her to go. 
She lifted her head, pressing her hand to her 
throat, choking back the feeling that Miss Car- 
drew's news had roused. She had been getting 

used to the emptiness of her life ; but the thought 

185 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

of the twins was a stone plumbing the depths of 
her loss. 

She stopped her march to listen . . . perhaps 
she would hear a cry . . . But everything was 
silent. And why should she not go? 

It was only the bitterness of her thoughts that 
kept her. The hardness that encrusted her heart 
steeled her against the woman more fortunate 
than herself. 

Fortunate? She laughed harshly. To Mrs. 
Markham every child she bore was a burden press- 
ing her down ; and twins! . . . "To him that 
hath shall be given," Priscilla said very bitterly. 
And because she had lost everything she could 
not bear to see the woman to whom life granted 
children more abundantly. 

No, she would not go! 
1 86 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

A GIFT. 

FOR the rest of that day she was restless and 
miserable ; her nerves strained. She listened to 
every sound, longing to hear the cry that would 
remind her of Dollie, fearing lest the voice would 
pierce her heart. Evening found her still on the 
rack. She moved from room to room telling 
herself she could not go down to Mrs. Markham, 
and yet unable to settle to anything. She un- 
locked the box in which she kept Dollie's clothes, 
and looked through them yearningly. It was 
like opening the grave, and brought back the 
heaviness of heart she had suffered. She longed 
with a terrible longing to have her baby again. 

She moved from the box and stood hesitating 
in the room ; then, not giving herself time to 
think, she ran downstairs and stood outside the 
door of Mrs. Markham's flat listening. Every- 
thing was quiet ; no sound helped her own desire 
to turn the handle and go in. The impulse died 

away. She stood, a hunted look in her eyes, 

187 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

listening. She leaned forward and laid her face 
against the door with a caressing softness ; then 
she sprang away and darted up the steps. Half- 
way up she paused and, after a moment's hesita- 
tion, turned back and went down again slowly 
and lingeringly, her face very haggard and pitiful. 
She stood close against the door and stroked it 
softly as if it had been a living face ; and while 
she stood there a tiny wail assailed her ears. At 
the first weak note the blood rushed to Priscilla's 
face. She turned the handle and went in. 

Mrs. Gibson sat by the fire rocking a child on 
her knee. Priscilla darted down upon her and 
lifted the little bundle and held it to her face and 
laughed and cried at once. 

" And I'm sure, Mrs. Momerie, I've been 
hexpecting of you hever since I knowed it were 
twins; and I said to Mrs. Markham, I said, hin- 
fants was that contrairy, goin' where they wasn't 
wanted and not goin' where a woman would give 
'er heyes to 'ave them. And I'm sure a pore 
woman with five of a family could ha' done with- 
out one, let alone the pair. But there! it's 
always the way. As Mr. Groves read in church 
last week, ' visiting the sins of the fathers upon 
the mothers,' which I've said many a time it's a 

sin and a shame ..." 

188 



A GIFT, 

" I'm sure I can't tell why Providence should 
punish me like this," said Mrs. Markham feebly 
from the bed. " It's bad enough to tell Mark- 
ham there's one acoming, but twins is enough 
to drive any man to the public." 

Priscilla's eyes sprang from one to the other. 
Her arms were tight round the baby, her heart 
was beating so fast she could not speak. All the 
feeling and love suppressed since Dollie's death 
had broken loose again, overwhelming her. The 
child in her arms, life surged again in a happy 
tumult through her veins. 

"And clothes not enough for one, let alone 
two," Mrs. Markham went on sighing, "and 
five mouths already, and Markham worse than a 
dozen, owing to the drink." 

" There hain't no justice in it," said Mrs. 
Gibson viciously, " and I could wish it was the 
man wot 'ad the children to bear. A woman 'as 
enough to put up with in a 'usband, let alone the 
children. Men is brutes so long as it don't cost 
'em anything. And I'm sure I don't know how 
you're to tell Markham it's twins." 

Priscilla's eyes grew round as she listened. 
The tears in them dried unbidden. 

" Mrs. Markham," she cried in a thin, high 

voice, ll are you sorry they are twins ? " 

189 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Mrs. Markham wiped her eyes with the corner 
of the sheet. 

"You see, Mrs. Momerie, two is more than 
one pair o' harms can carry, and there's only 
Susie to see to them when I am aworkin' . . . 
I never was one to talk agen Providence, and I'd 
ha' said nothing to another baby . . . but twins! 
It don't seem right to arst a woman to put up 
with twins." 

Priscilla's eyes were eager with a dry bril- 
liancy. 

"Mrs. Markham," she cried shrilly, "give 
me one of them a little baby for my very own. 
I will love it like Dollie, and you shall never have 
any more trouble. Oh, you will say yes! You 
don't want the two ; and I ! oh, I can't tell you 
how I long and long and long to have a little 
baby of my own." 

" Ah, poor dear! " sighed Mrs. Gibson. 

Mrs. Markham was silent : her eyes were fixed 
greedily on the baby in Priscilla's arms. 

"That's the little b'y," she said; "I don't 
know as 'ow I could spare the little b'y. B'ys 
look after theirsels when they grows up." 

Priscilla gave the child to Mrs. Gibson and 
stepped quickly to the bed, and leaned over Mrs. 

Markham to take the other twin. 
190 



A GIFT. 

" I don't want the boy, I would rather have 
the girl," she cried eagerly. "Oh, you will 
make me so happy if you will give her to me, 
Mrs. Markham." 

But Mrs. Markham pushed Priscilla away with 
one arm while she held the baby with the other. 

" I don't see as I can part with the gel," she 
said. " Gels is allus useful about a 'ouse." 

The light on Priscilla's face died down. 

"I do so want a little baby of my own," she 
said, her lips trembling. " And I would love 
yours, if you would . . ." 

"And I'm sure it's just flyin' in the face o' 
Providence if you don't give up the gel," said 
Mrs. Gibson's rasping voice. "You can't rear 
them both, and Mrs. Momerie will be a mother if 
any one will . . ." 

"It hain't that," said Mrs. Markham faintly, 
" but I don't know as I can spare the gel ..." 

Priscilla clasped her hands together. 

" Then let me have the boy ..." 

She stepped towards Mrs. Gibson, but Mrs. 
Markham stopped her sharply. 

" I don't know as I can spare the b'y ..." 

"You're a hungrateful woman," said Mrs. 
Gibson angrily, " and you've got no more'n you 

deserve . . . And next year I shouldn't wonder if 
191 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

it hain't triplers. When a woman begin? with 
twins ten to one she goes on to triplers, and 
the Queen's bounty don't make up for three on 
your* hands at once, no it don't; as you will 
find, and wish you 'adn't ha' flown in the face 
o' Providence takin* one off your 'ands this 
year ..." 

Mrs. Gibson stopped breathless, and Mrs. 
Markham hesitated. 

" If I could be sure o' that ..." 

"Them is things we can't be sure on," said 
Mrs. Gibson; "and if we could be sure o' hall 
that follers wot we does, there's a many of us 
would live decent." 

" Mrs. Markham," Priscilla struck in, " if you 
would give me one you should see it every day 
and nurse it, and have it when you liked, only 
you would let it live with me, and let it be my 
little baby, and let me have it to love and to . . ." 

Her sobs prevented the end of the sentence. 

"Now 'ush, my dear," said Mrs. Gibson. 
" Cryin' never yet mended a broken pot, as I've 
said to Jimmy many a time." 

" I can't abear to see you takin' on," said 
Mrs. Markham, crying herself. "And you can 
'ave one o' the twins. You can 'ave wot one 

you want, Mrs. Momerie, and I'll shet my eyes 

1 92 



A GIFT. 

while you has your chice, and please take it with 
you before I see you going." 

She handed the little girl to Priscilla, then 
turned away and drew the bedclothes over her 
head. 

Priscilla gave one rapturous look at the little 
face ; then, without a glance at the boy on Mrs. 
Gibson's lap, she ran from the flat and did not 
stop until she was safely in her own room. The 
box with Dollie's clothes was open. Laughing 
and sobbing, her hands trembling with excite- 
ment, she undressed the baby and put on it the 
garments she had made for her baby ; and when 
her work was finished she clasped the child to 
her bosom, smiling through her tears, and ran to 
the sitting-room to her husband. 

"O Dunstane! look at my little baby! my 
little own baby ! Dollie come back again ! " 

Dunstane looked up wearily. 

"What a child you are, Priscilla! Whose 
brat have you got there ? " . 

Priscilla's arms closed round the baby. 

"It's mine, my very own little Dollie. Mrs. 
Markham has given her to me." 

Dunstane raised himself on his elbow, and 
looked at his wife. 

" You are carrying your foolishness too far, 
193 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Priscilla. Take the child down again. My head 
aches. I can't be bothered by babies." 

Priscilla looked blankly at him. 

" Dunstane, don't you understand ? She 
is mine. I am going to have her instead of 
Dollie . . . Would you like to hold her a 
minute ? " 

Dunstane waved his hand and turned away, 
speaking softly and reluctantly. 

" I don't expect you to have any feelings, 
Priscilla, you never loved Dollie ; but I must ask 
you not to torture me. If you are heartless 
enough to wish to give another child Dollie's 
place in our home, I at least will not consent to 
it." 

" But, Dunstane . . ." She stared at him, not 
believing her ears. 

He waved his hand again. 

' ' Take that child away . . . The sight of her 
breaks my heart ! " 

" I will keep her in the other rooms . . . You 
shall never see her," Priscilla gasped. 

" That is enough, Priscilla. I will not have a 
beggar's brat in the place of Dollie." 

"Do you mean I am to give her back?" 
Priscilla asked hotly. 

" I have already clearly stated what I mean." 
194 



A GIFT. 

She went out of the room carrying the baby, 
rebellion hot in her heart. But she would not 
yield. The child was hers, and Dunstane should 
not take it away. 

She sat down holding the little thing close, her 
love for the child overcoming her anger at Dun- 
stane. She felt human again ; the touch of the 
tiny hands, the sight of the little face, had melted 
her frozen heart. 

" I can't give her up, I can't! I can't!" she 
sobbed. 

The door opened and she looked up, to see 
Mrs. Gibson peeping in. The woman stepped 
gingerly and spoke in a loud whisper. 

" I didn't want as Mr. Momerie should 'ear 
me ; and I've come for the baby. Its .mother's 
takin' on as never was. She won't give it hup 
not to nobody, and oh, dear me! what a fluster 
she's in, to be sure, and the milk turning. So 
you'll jest 'ave to let me take it down again, Mrs. 
Momerie." 

Priscilla lifted her white face. 

" I can't! I can't! I want her! See, I've put 
Dollie's clothes on her ... I want my little 
baby again." 

" I doubt you'll 'ave to want 'er, Mrs. Mom- 
erie. 'Er pore mother will kill 'erself frettin', 
195 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

and the children too, if I don't take 'er back. So 
jest let 'er come quiet, and you can step in and 
nurse 'em and play with 'em when you wants to." 

Priscilla allowed Mrs. Gibson to lift the baby; 
but when the door had closed upon her she threw 
herself on the bed and cried heart-brokenly. 

A few hours after a pale and miserable Pris- 
cilla crept down to Mrs. Markham's flat with a 
bundle of babies' clothes for the twins. But she 

would not go in to see them. 

196 



CHAPTER XIX. 

LONDON, WEST. 

AT Piccadilly Circus Miss Cardrew and Ger- 
trude alighted from the 'bus. The expectation 
on their faces showed also in their walk, and in 
the eyes that pounced on every detail of the 
street ; in their dresses too. 

Gertrude was fresh and dainty as the May 
morning. Miss Cardrew's eager old face with 
the colours washed out, her faded figure, her 
white front, and shiny black silk made a foil to 
the pretty girl. 

More than one man turned to stare at them as 
they hesitated before fording the traffic. 

The flower-girls sat on the fountain steps, their 
baskets heaped with the spring; yellow daffo- 
dils, purple-lidded violets, primroses that smiled, 
blood-red anemone, and laughing crocus. Mai- 
den had taught Gertrude to notice the value of 
colour. 

" Isn't it pretty? " She smiled at Miss Car- 
drew ; to-day everything made her smile. 
197 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

It was the first Monday in May, and they were 
going with the crowd to the Academy. This 
sacrifice they were making in honour of Maiden's 
success. 

"A Nineteenth-Century Madonna" had been 
hung on the line. He had captured his bird 
sooner than he had hoped for . . . the fluttering 
thing was in his hand, but the plumage was red 
with death. 

Miss Cardrew saw only the triumph and came 
with eager joy to share it. If Gertrude's hand 
touching his had been stained too, the stain was 
hidden by her glove. It fitted perfectly, was 
eloquent of the pretty hand it covered. 

He had taken Priscilla to the private view. 
Gertrude and Miss Cardrew made one of the un- 
imposing crowd the well-dressed, well-fed crowd 
that the spring tides wash up on the flood of 
London life, pressing back the wintry waters that 
moan eastward. 

There was a block before Maiden's picture. 
The two women waited to edge themselves 
in. 

Miss Cardrew's eyes were blinking, dazzled by 
a World in big sleeves and a "picture" hat. 
Under the powder and spotted veil it was diffi- 
cult to discover the Flesh. The third person of 

198 



LONDON, WEST. 

this Trinity was, for the time being, skied. 
Near the same barrier Maiden had stood; but 
there had been neither pride nor triumph on his 
face . . . He had been thinking of his dead bird. 

A cleft in the throng made it possible for Ger- 
trude and Miss Cardrew to get within sight of the 
picture. 

Yes ; it was Priscilla, big-eyed and wan as they 
had known her lately . . . Priscilla and her little 
baby. 

' ' She looked just like that when she sat hold- 
ing her dear little dead child . . . Yet the picture 
was painted before Dollie was taken from her," 
Miss Cardrew whispered. 

Gertrude nodded. They stood in silence lis- 
tening to the remarks of the people about them ; 
some of them fell like lashes on raw flesh. 

" Oh yes, clever enough, a lot of this new art 
is ... but I don't believe in it ... The whole 
thing is unwholesome, morbid . . . Can't get 
away from it nowadays : fiction, life, fashion 
. . . The age is suffering from green sickness." 

"All the same there is strength in its real- 
ism . . . pathos too . . . look at the woman's 
eyes ..." 

"Leave realism to life. Art should glad- 
den." 

199 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

1 ' When art teaches she may have to use the 
birch." 

" She should use it on herself, and let the par- 
son preach." 

" The age is too delicate to go to church . . . 
But that is a fine picture . . . best thing I've 

seen yet." 

* * * * * 

"What a fright! Her frock is twelve miles 
behind the fashion . . . and that awful little 
baby ! 

" I hate those hungry-looking women, don't 
you ? She looks as if she wanted plenty of beef- 
tea and port wine . . . Women like that have no 

business to bring babies into the world." 

* * * * * 

"How terrible! They shouldn't paint such 
pictures ... so unnatural too ! Who ever saw 
flesh like that? . . . But that high light is 

good ..." 

***** 

"A nineteenth-century madonna indeed! 

" ' Lo, here,' said He, 
'The images ye have made of Me.'" 

***** 

" It is quite impressionist, I think." 

"Oh, quite. It's excellent if one could get 
200 



LONDON, WEST. 

far enough away from it to see it properly. But 
you can't appreciate that sort of thing if you are 

too near it." 

***** 

"Really, that is too ridiculous! a woman 
starving, and a dead child on her lap. Things 
like that don't happen in the nineteenth century. 
. . . Our poor-rate system . . ." 

***** 

Miss Cardrew's lips were twitching. She could 
be silent no longer. She turned, facing the 
critics, and her eyes were ablaze and indignant. 

" I assure you," she said in her high little 
voice, "things like that do happen nowadays . . . 
That is our dear Priscilla, and that is her beloved 
little Dollie who died because she lived in Build- 
ings where she could not get air or sun. Babies 
who live in Buildings die there, you know, and 
their dear mothers' hearts break . . . while you 
laugh ..." 

" Oh, hush ! " Gertrude plucked at her gown. 

" The woman is mad ! " 

A lady levelled her lorgnette at her. 

" Oh no, indeed, I assure you I am not mad." 
Miss Cardrew addressed the lorgnette ... "I 
greatly fear it is you who are mad . . . mad and 
blind, and lifeless, and heartless . . . people of the 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

gay world who live with their heads buried in 
gold, and see nothing of the want and hunger 
and despair that are killing hundreds of poor 
women and dear little babies round you . . . 
Your children die and you comfort yourselves, 
and your bleeding hearts, thinking everything 
was done to save them ... It was God's will. 



... It is not God's will that one of the least of 
these little ones should perish. They die because 
nothing is done for them . . . When death comes 
to you it is covered up by flowers; poor women 
see only the hard boards of the coffin ..." 

The very unexpectedness of the address 
startled them into attention. Some of them lis- 
tened smiling; some pressed forward to look at 
her the grotesque little person from the east 
end! some fell back and went their way: 
" Crazy, no doubt of it." 

Miss Cardrew faced them bravely till she 
stopped breathless. Then she tottered away into 
the deserted water-colour room, and sat down on 
one of the seats. When Gertrude came up she 
was shaking with excitement, her white front 
bobbing about under her bonnet. 

She looked up with a deprecating air. 

" My dear, you must forgive me. It was 
unconventional, I know, indeed highly improper 



LONDON, WEST. 

. . . but I am glad I said it ... I could not 
stand in silence to hear them making such stric- 
tures on our dear Priscilla." 

" I am glad you said it! " said Gertrude pas- 
sionately. " Oh, I am glad I am a poor person 
... I am glad I know what it is to strive, and 
work, and fail ... It is better to live in Build- 
ings, in touch with death that makes you feel the 
life round you, than to be like these women. 
They look at life through an opera-glass . . ." 

" I don't like the Buildings, my dear . . . And 
it is good to have a little money ..." 

"I don't want money to be rich! Rich 
people don't hear the whole gamut of life . . . 
They touch a few notes; but the heights and 
the depths they can't even imagine them . . . 
It is better to be poor as I am ..." 

" My dear, no one would call you 
poor." 

" No, that is because of this frock ... I shall 
never wear it again . . . Fashion is the livery of 
the heartless." 

" But, my dear, you mistake. They were not 
all heartless ... I saw some in tears . . . and 
that man who quoted Lowell ... he looked a 
religious man . . ." 

"Yes, I saw ... he looked religious; but you 
203 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

can't tell ... I think religion is the vault in 
which people lay their dead consciences ..." 

They sat there watching the ebb and flow of 
the tide. In this room there was nothing uncon- 
ventional nothing to strike the moan of reality 
through the gay ripple of the current. 

11 The picture is evidently a success, considered 
artistically," said Miss Cardrew. "Our dear 
young friend must be very pleased . . . and in- 
deed we all share in his joy ..." 

" Pleased! " Gertrude cried bitterly. 

She had seen Maiden's face in its triumph ; and 
the hopelessness of her love helped her to under- 
stand the bitterness of his success. 

204 



CHAPTER XX. 

A POOR THING. 

DuNSTANE's refusal to let his wife keep Mrs. 
Markham's baby roused more indignation in 
Priscilla's heart than almost any action of his that 
had preceded it. She could not forgive his selfish- 
ness, nor the small regard he showed for her feel- 
ings. And Dunstane, conscious that he had 
wounded her unnecessarily, resented her silence, 
and betook himself to sulking and to sharp words, 
so widening more and more the breach between 
them. 

There was a weary hopelessness on her face all 
through the winter ; and the spring brought some- 
thing into her eyes that frightened Gertrude and 
maddened the man who loved her and who was 
watching the tragedy that was being enacted at 
No. 30. 

Since Dollie's death Maiden had grown re- 
served and cold. He saw less of the Momeries, 
though he found time for many little kindnesses 

to Dunstane that made the days easier for Priscilla. 

205 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Through the winter his At Homes had been 
an institution. Priscilla and Dunstane went with 
the others; and Dunstane talked, making dreamy 
disciples to his New Religion. He was not liv- 
ing in vain, he said. He was teaching these 
young men a high philosophy ; it was worth more 
to them than a knowledge of the classics . . . 

If Priscilla asked him what practical effect his 
teaching had upon their lives, he was ready with 
a twin query : What practical effect had a Greek 
play upon life? All the advantages she claimed 
for the play he claimed for his philosophy . . . 
And who could gainsay him? 

To the people at Maiden's evenings Priscilla 
talked no more of her Book of the Great City. 
When she talked at all, and it was very seldom, 
she whirled them round in a mad dance of droll- 
ery . . . But the light in her eyes did not dance. 
The hollow mirth drummed cruelly on Maiden's 
ears. Gertrude could have cried as she watched 
her. Miss Cardrew was so very thankful our 
dear Priscilla was recovering a little of her old 
gaiety. 

She was changed in other ways. Maiden had 
some new models . . . fascinating Persian kittens. 
She never noticed them. 

When she saw his picture hanging on the line 
206 



A POOR THING. 

at Burlington House she said: "Yes, it is a 
good likeness. I am just like that now . . . only 
without my little baby." 

He set his lips, and grew more cold and re- 
served. 

Sometimes with Miss Cardrew she would be 
more like her old self. Up in the bare room, 
with nothing beside her but the little spinster's 
tenderness, the softness would come back to her 
face, the love to her eyes. She shared scraps of 
talk with Cardie, sitting on the rug with her 
head on her knee. 

"Cardie dear, do I look like a poor thing? " 

" A poor thing, Priscilla? " 

" Yes, one of those poor things that is stamped 
' Poor Thing ' till the very 'bus-man knows her, 
and flicks his whip at her, winking to the man 
behind." 

" You, my dear Priscilla! 

" I didn't think I looked like it ... I have 
been going about by myself all this time, and no 
one ever dared . . . But yesterday a man spoke 
to me ..." 

" Dear Priscilla, don't let us talk of it ... 
These subjects are not quite suitable ... It is 
not as if I were married . . . What did you do 

under the very painful circumstance, my dear? " 

207 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" I did nothing ... I said . . . Damn! ' 

"Priscilla! . . . Oh, my dear, indeed, indeed 
you shock me! ... a pupil of mine . . . And 
what did he do? " 

" He ran ... but he lifted his hat first." 

" My dear, it was a very terrible expression 
for a lady to use ..." 

"Was it? . . . Cardie dear, I think if every 
woman said ' Damn' when a bad man spoke to 
her there would be fewer bad men in the 
world ..." 

" I think you are right, Priscilla . . . and . . . 
arid I will try to say it if any one ever speaks to 
me ..." 

The little spinster's face was flushed; she 
looked a hero facing battle. 

" I have just completed my story about you, my 
dear. I am anxious to know what the reviewers 
will say to it ..." 

" It depends on their cooks, doesn't it ? and 
on the balance at their banker's, and on the sort 
of women they have married ... But it must be 
nice to have reviews ... to know that your work 
is worthy of notice." 

" My dear, people notice your stories ..." 

"As they notice the advertisements in the 

stations ..." 

208 



A POOR THING. 

"And some day you will write a story that 
we shall all be proud of . . ." 

" Never now ! I have nothing to write for . . . 
Cardie dear, you predicted wrongly . . . Failure 
is on everything I have done ! ' 

" Not everything, Priscilla ..." 

" Yes, everything! everything! " She sat up, 
speaking passionately. " I look round . . . 
What do I see for my life? . . . Nothing, noth- 
ing! . . . Only the years that the locust hath 
eaten ..." 

" But, my dear ..." 

"Wait! . . . you shall see them too . . . 
Look ! My first success ! . . . I got that because 
human nature loves mud . . . The locusts fell 
upon my book and fattened ... I spend my 
time writing stories that humiliate me ... I am 
a ' Poor Thing ' ; I live by my shame. The 
locusts again ! . . . Then Dollie was coming, and 
how happy I was ! I could give her nothing but 
a merry heart ; she should have that ! . . . Cardie 
dear, did you ever see a more pitiful sight than 
my little baby? . . . the locusts ate her before 
she was born ..." She went on fiercely . . . 
" But I had her little white face to kiss, her little 

hands . . . Now I haven't even her clothes ..." 
209 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"Your dear husband's love," said Miss Car- 
drew, choking. 

Priscilla's silence was an open grave. She laid 
her head on Miss Cardrew's knee again. 

" I did so want a little thing of my own," she 
moaned . . . "And now Dollie is dead . . . and 
I shall never have another ... I shall never have 
another ..." 

She raised her head. Her eyes stared into the 
blank future. 

Miss Cardrew found nothing to say . . . The 
lark chirped feebly in his cage . . . 

2IO 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

MlSS CARDREW was in the skimpy dressing- 
gown when Maiden told her the news, but that 
did not prevent her hurrying down to No. 30. 
Quite unmindful of the fact glaringly obvious 
to-day that she possessed legs, she sat on a 
high chair by the sofa, her feet dangling, her 
white front awry, her spectacles very dim, a great 
gladness in her kind old eyes. Priscilla twisted 
round from the bureau was listening, her face 
grey and wan. She looked older than Miss 
Card re w. 

"Yes, indeed, it is really wonderful," Miss 
Cardrew went on. " Gertrude had the telegram 
a few minutes ago. She went at once. Madame 
Lomaz is ill, and the concert is to-night . . . 
The Queen's Hall. Only think of little Gertrude 
singing in the Queen's Hall! It is nearly as 
good as the Albert Hall indeed better, from 
the point of view of sex ... I trust she will 
acquit herself creditably while her voice is being 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

tested just now . . . She has very little time for 
preparation . . . But then it is only one song . . . 
Mr. Maiden is going to put off his journey till 
to-morrow in order to be present ..." The 
little spinster babbled on. 

Priscilla's face awoke: she was really pleased. 
It was good to know that Gertrude had this 
chance: she had worked hard for it these three 
years . . . 

But hard work had not won the chance for 
Gertrude. 

It was some time now since one of the men 
who came to Maiden's At 'Homes, a journalist, 
had been diligently sowing paragraphs in the 
papers about the new soprano, Miss Gertrude 
Tennant. Wherever her name could be dragged 
into a newspaper it appeared. 

Everything about her was recorded her 
youth, her beauty, her charm, her wonderful 
voice; even the eccentricity which made her 
live in workmen's buildings, where she sang for 
sick children and invalids, and was the star of 
the Bohemian evenings given by Maiden, the 
artist, whose celebrated picture, etc., etc. . . . 
It all sounded very well. People began to won- 
der if they had heard Miss Tennant, . . . and if 
not, why not? . Little Newsome spent a good 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

deal of time in posting the paragraphs, marked 
with blue pencil, to concert managers; and in 
casually mentioning Miss Tennant's name in in- 
fluential quarters. 

To-day he had his reward. Gertrude had 
been sent for to supply the place of Madame 
Lomaz at a Queen's Hall concert. 

Dunstane found Miss Cardrew's enthusiasm 
irritating . . . She had not a word for him; and 
what did she mean by appearing before him in 
that ridiculous garment? . . . The light on Pris- 
cilla's face set fire to his irritation. He might 
write for ever and ever, and she would not give 
him a spark of the interest she showed in Ger- 
trude's petty triumph . . . Besides, why should 
success come to all the world and not to him? 
There was Maiden with a picture he had not 
taken a month to paint talked of everywhere. 
The girl had a voice ; and they made as much 
fuss of it as though to amuse people was the 
greatest thing in life . . . He had worked for 
years to give a new faith and a new hope to the 
world, and he was left neglected and unnoticed. 

He was not well . . . Miss Cardrew's gleeful 
chatter bored him. When the door closed upon 
her he told Priscilla not to let that woman come 

near him again she got on his nerves. 

213 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

All day long he fretted Priscilla. She could 
do nothing. He interrupted her work every 
few minutes. The errands he made for her were 
endless. She toiled up and down the long flights 
of stairs all the morning; but nothing she did 
pleased him. 

Priscilla's face grew more weary with every 
journey, but she did not complain. She did her 
duty to Dunstane, though the zest had gone out 
of her work for him. The bitterness she cher- 
ished against him reacted upon every part of her 
life. She had so wanted a little baby, and when 
the miracle had happened, and another had been 
sent to take Dollie's place, Dunstane had refused 
to consent to her happiness. She forgot that 
Mrs. Markham had taken back her gift; the bit- 
terness was all for Dunstane, and she could not 
forgive him. 

And so there existed an open estrangement 
between the two. Each recognised that the 
marriage had been a mistake. Each would 
gladly have parted from the other, but circum- 
stances held them bound. Dunstane was self- 
ishly dependent on his wife. Priscilla's idea of 
marriage was that of a life union, " for better, for 
worse." The light had failed in her life, but 
she walked through the darkness clinging to the 

214 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

hand of the angel Duty. Only thus was it pos- 
sible for her to bear with her husband. Since the 
child's death Dunstane had made no pretence of 
love for Priscilla. He was sometimes brutal in his 
frank disregard of her. This morning he was in 
a notably ungracious mood. Gertrude's bright 
face at the door, announcing that she was to sing 
that night, made him sulk. 

The girl ran away to practise, and they heard 
her for hours after. Her song was Kingsley's 
" Oh that we two were Maying! " and the famil- 
iar air racked Dunstane's nerves. 

The song set Priscilla's heart on a mad gallop 
to be out in the sunshine of the May morning. 
Out of the Buildings echoing with children's 
cries and women's strained voices and the 
struggle of life . . . Out of the terrible city, whose 
pitilessness was slowly killing her. Out from the 
sight of Dunstane's face and the sound of Dun- 
stane's peevishness. Out from the three rooms 
that had ceased to be home and were only the 
prison in which she walked the treadmill of life. 
Out into sun and air! . . . Oh to be on the 
moors again, with the spicy breath of pine and 
heather about her, and the glad freedom of cloud 
and bird promising liberty! Oh. for the spring 
of moss and turf under her weary feet, and the 
215 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

sight of delicate green of spray and bud ! Oh 
for girlhood again, and freedom, and the merry 
heart that had gone all the way! And oh for 
life that had never known failure and disillusion 
and pain and death ! 

" O God, give me back my past! " she sobbed. 

There was no sound of any that answered 
only the voice from upstairs; and the words of 
the song weighting the air like a heavy perfume: 

" Oh that we two were Maying 

Down the stream of the soft spring breeze ; 
Like children with young flowers playing 

In the shade of the whispering trees ! 
Oh that we two sat dreaming 

On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, 
Watching the white mist stealing 

Over river and mead and town ! . . . 

Priscilla lifted her head with a sudden gasp 
for air: the grip of the city was on her throat; 
she was being strangled. It was this that was 
killing her the daily struggle against a power 
absolute in its inevitableness; the awful potency 
of the massed misery of London. 

" Oh that we two were Maying ! . . . 
Watching the white mist stealing." 

It was so long since she had seen anything 
but brick and pavement and fog. Even the sun 

fell half-heartedly, grudgingly, on the London 

216 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED, 

streets . . . She had not seen field nor sky, not 
since Dollie was buried . . . She had seen the 
sky then it had smiled an echo of that "grace 
of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God." 
But since that day her feet had wandered into 
dark places . . . 

By and by Maiden came in, quiet and 
casual as he had been lately. Priscilla's heart 
flying to him fell stunned against his glassy re- 
serve. Yet his words looked kindly enough from 
behind the screen. 

He had three stalls for the concert. Miss 
Cardrew was going with him, and he hoped he 
thought Mrs. Momerie ought to see Miss Ten- 
nant make her bow to success. 

Priscilla's face was miserable. She lifted dull 
eyes in which, deep down, a little spark had 
been kindled. A thin colour came and went on 
her cheeks. Maiden was leaving town next day; 
it would be pleasant to go to the concert with 
him. 

" Could you spare me to-night for an hour or 
two, Dunstane? " 

Her voice was steady, but the colour was like 
a pulse in her cheek. Dunstane looked up irri- 
tably. 

"I wonder you can think of it, Priscilla. 

217 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Can't you see for yourself? . . . But it is nothing 
to you; you would leave me to die just as you 
left the child ..." 

" Brute!" Maiden said under his breath, 
turning away fiercely. He could not bear to see 
the shadow quenching the light on Priscilla's face. 

" If you would rather not be alone, Dunstane, 
Mrs. Gibson is at home ... I would ask her to 
sit with you." 

"Mrs. Gibson faugh! . . . The room reeks 
of onions for a week after she has been in it ... 
Besides, my brain is splitting. Imagine her 
hand . . . But go! It doesn't matter." 

Priscilla went to his side, and laid her fingers 
on his forehead. 

"You should have told me before, dear; I 
would have massaged it for you." 

He flung her hand away, and her wrist struck 
against the sharp knob of the sofa. 

There was a cry, silenced immediately. She 
covered the wrist with the other hand, but not 
before Maiden had seen the blood starting. 

His face was as white as hers. Muttering 
that she must let him know what she decided, 
he went out of the room. If he had waited an 
instant longer he must have thrashed Dunstane 

then and there. 

218 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

"The brute! the cowardly brute! " 

He walked up and down his studio mad with 

rage and pain and love . . . 

***** 

Miss Cardrew and Gertrude had set out to- 
gether early. The others were to follow. Pris- 
cilla knocked at the door where Maiden was wait- 
ing, a reserved person, commonplace in evening 
dress. It was difficult to believe that he had 
ever worn shabby tweed and ramped like a lion 
in a cage. 

A glance at Priscilla showed she was not go- 
ing: she wore the dress of the workaday world; 
her face was more tLed, more wretched, than 
he had ever seen it. He drew a chair forward 
and begged her to sit down. But she would not 
keep him he ought to be starting. 

" I am not going without you, Mrs. Momerie." 

Her eyes travelled round the studio. It was 
all dismantled, ready for its desertion; the fur- 
niture was under sheets even the angels car- 
rying lilies were draped. 

Maiden was going to Normandy for a month's 
sketching. He would have started that night 
but for the concert. Priscilla remembered that 
she would not see him for a month, and she sat 

down wearily, her listless hands on her lap. 
219 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN, 

Suddenly Maiden stooped, and lifted the 
wounded wrist and looked at the cut Dunstane 
had made. 

He saw more than the scar: he saw the thin 
wrist, the fleshless arm . . . 

The battle he had been fighting all day was 
over. He was beaten . . . He kissed the purple 
mark . . . 

Priscilla gave a little cry, and snatched her 
hand away, looking at him with frightened eyes. 
. . . She could not escape his eyes . . . 

" I have been quiet too long! " he said pas- 
sionately. " I am going to speak now . . . No, 
. . . you must hear me this time . . . Do you 
know what you are going to do, Priscilla, Pris- 
cilla?" 

The name on his lips rippled like a singing 
brook. Her heart flew to the love in his eyes. 
She gave a long sigh, and the repression and 
pain fell away from her face like a mask. There 
was a hint of youth in her flush. 

He took her hand again and bent over 
her. 

' ' You are going to let me take you away out 
of this prison. We shall begin life again boy 
and girl together under the blue skies ..." 

The room reeled as she heard him. 
220 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

" Oh that we two were Maying ! 
Oh that we two were Maying ! " 

" I can't go away and leave you to be mur- 
dered," he went on furiously . . . " Isn't it 
enough that you should sacrifice health and hap- 
piness to him? . . . You shall not give your life 
too ... I would never have spoken if I had 
thought that he loved you . . . but he hasn't 
even manhood enough for that . . . and you . . . 
you don't love him . . . you never loved him." 

" He is my husband ... I can't listen ... I 
can't! Oh let me go! . . ." 

" Oh that we two were Maying ! " 

" You must listen "... He stood before her, 
preventing her rising. " What does he give you 
for all you have given him? . . . You have sac- 
rificed everything . . . your best years, your 
talents, yourself . . . You, who might have writ- 
ten The Book of the Great City. You waste 
your days on pot-boilers, that life may be easy 
for a selfish brute . . . What have you had in 
return? Cruelty, ingratitude, wounds that cut 
deeper than this ..." 

"Ah, don't! " 

" But I must! ... I have loved you too long 
to stand dumb and see you die ... A woman 
like you, chained to a living corpse ..." 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" 'Whom God hath joined . . . '" Priscilla 
gasped through her white lips. 

She had no strength to wrestle with this mas- 
terful love. 

" God joined?" he laughed. "Nay, it was 
the devil's joining, tying your beautiful years to 
Momerie's lying humbug." 

Maiden took quick strides about the room. 
He was scarcely conscious of what he was say- 
ing. All these months of pity and devotion had 
been cutting deep channels in his nature of which 
he had known nothing. He would have laughed 
at any one who had told him that a man of his 
temperament would fall in love with a married 
woman, and go so far as to tell her he loved her. 
His love for Priscilla, he had told himself, was a 
thing apart from passion. It was austere and 
unselfish, a gentle current that knew nothing of 
the sweep of ocean tides or the swelling of moun- 
tain torrents. He had loved her with a pity 
that was all pain and hopeless longing. There 
had been no thought of reward or return in his 
love: he had respected her too much for that. 
And now the stream had forced its banks, carry- 
ing away with it self-restraint, prudence, every- 
thing. It was a muddy flood of turbulent pas- 
sion, on which floated fragments of pity, drifting 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED, 

planks that had made Love's shrine . . . He 
looked at the thin white hands in which she had 
hidden her thin white face, and he justified 
himself for the thing that a saner mood would 
condemn. The anger in his voice fell to plead- 
ing. 

"Priscilla, you have never been loved yet. 
Let me teach you to be happy. Let me give 
you what you have lost ..." 

She looked up then, and her eyes read his 
face with the wistful questioning of a little child. 
He had assailed her weakest moment, when the 
chain was strained to the uttermost. All day 
she had been dragging at the links which bound 
her to her life with Dunstane. It was so hope- 
less, so cramped, so pitiful; and the life beyond 
the city's misery promised sunshine and free- 
dom and the pagan blessedness her heart craved. 
To feel her youth once more, the tumult of life 
in her veins that would be worth anything. 
And Maiden stood there offering to give her 
what she had lost. 

" I have lost my youth," she sobbed. 

Maiden's eyes flashed; he drew himself up, 
and the strength of his frame was as the strength 
of ten. 

" I can give you that ... in three months." 

223 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"My beauty!" 

"You are the most beautiful woman in the 
world," he laughed triumphantly. 

Her eyes read him still, seeing the light on 
his face, the tenderness around his mouth, his 
strong manhood. And her heart cried out for 
the joy of life 

" Oh that we two were Maying ! 
Oh that we two ..." 

A memory of the morning shook her. The 
fierce longing Gertrude's song had roused wres- 
tled again with duty and right. The angel that 
had walked with her veiled his face, and turned 
away from that unequal combat in which flesh 
and devil were arrayed against one frail woman 
heart. 

" I have lost my ideals! " Priscilla moaned. 

' ' You have given me mine ! ' ' 

" My ambition ..." 

" You shall write your Book of the Great City 
with me." 

" I have lost my little baby," she sobbed. 

" Priscilla ..." 

She started up and stood before him with 

panting breath, life in her figure. Her eyes saw 

224 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

a new heaven and a new earth ; but the look on 
her face kept passion at bay. 

" I can give you all," he said hoarsely; "the 
years you have wasted." 

She put out her hand ; the light died in her 
eyes. 

"Ah, no, no! " she cried. "You can't give 
me those . . . The years that the locust hath 
eaten you can't give them back ..." 

He took her hands in his; the strong palms 
around her fluttering fingers quieted her heart 
too. 

"Trust me, Priscilla . . . Love can work mir- 
acles . . . We two together ..." 

" Oh that we two were Maying ! 
Oh that we two were Maying !" 

The music was round her again, crashing 
through the room, whirling her round in its 
maze, dulling the pain of those years that the 
locusts had eaten. Her hands were in his . . . 
Why should she deny the love for which her 
heart craved . . . Why should she go back to 
share Dunstane's cheerless days . . . 

"Tell me this," she cried almost fiercely. 

"Are you one of those men who, so long as 
225 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

they have plenty to eat and drink, and an easy 
life, are perfectly content?" 

"I don't think so," he said slowly, startled 
by her manner. 

"And would you think society and the world 
could not be improved, so long as you had your 
own way in life? " 

" Good gracious, no! " 

"And would you be willing to give up every- 
thing, your manhood even, and pretend . . . 
pretend . . . and deceive yourself into thinking 
you were ill, when all the time ... all the time . . . 
you were only . . . selfish . . . and a coward? " 

He stared at her. He could not understand 
her agitation. 

"I would rather have health in rags than a 
weak body and all the riches of the world." 

"And you would never talk about anything; 
your work, your painting, till you had done it?" 

" I fancy that is not one of my weaknesses," 
he laughed. 

She looked searchingly into his face, and he 
bore her look without flinching. His eyes smiled 
with a boyish shyness. 

' ' Are you satisfied ? " he asked softly. ' ' Will 
you come? " 

She gave a long sigh and drew her hands away. 

226 



THE ANGELS ARE VEILED. 

" I must think. Give me a few days." 

" I will give you two hours. A train leaves 
Waterloo at 10.15 for the boat at Southampton. 
You will come . . . You will let me teach you to 
love me? " 

She lifted her weary eyes to his. 

" Dunstane said he would do that . . . and he 
couldn't." 

"Dunstane was never a man!" His lips 
curled. 

"And I think ... I think ... I am not a 
woman . . . Nothing moves me . . . nothing 
touches me . . . only Dollie . . . And if I gave 
up my life here . . . for ashes? " 

She was like a child appealing to an elder. 
The trustfulness in her eyes hurt the man. 

"Priscilla," he said gravely; "if you love 
me ..." 

"I don't love you," she answered quickly. 
" My heart is quite cold. But I have always 
trusted you . . . and my life is so hard ... It 
can't be right that everything is over for me . . . 
I could be so happy ... so happy. And you 
would love me. I think you would love 
me." 

"I love you," he interrupted. 

"And I would be in the sun and breathe 
227 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

again," she went on passionately. "And I 
would be free! free! " 

" Free as air, Priscilla! " 

A sudden fire flamed in her face. 

"Right is not best!" she cried, her voice 
ringing harshly. "And it is never happy. I 
have done right for these two years . . . Do I 
look like a happy woman? " 

" You are going to be happy now." 

He made a step forward, but she stopped him. 

" No . . . not yet! Let me go ... let me 
think." 

His arms dropped. 

"Priscilla, I will not even touch you. You 
are free to decide now ... as you shall be free 
after you have decided." His voice trembled, 
and the break in it went to Priscilla's heart. 
"I can't bear the thought of losing you now 
even for a moment," he cried passionately. 
"But I can trust you. You will meet me at 
Waterloo at ten o'clock. You will follow your 
heart, Priscilla? " 

She did not answer, going silently from the 
studio. Maiden stood where she had left him, 
eyes flashing, pulses beating, heart galloping. 
He looked round him triumphantly. 

The angels carrying lilies were veiled. 

228 



CHAPTER XXII. 

OH THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING ! 

PRISCILLA stole quietly into the bedroom she 
did not want to see Dunstane. 

" I must think ... I must think ..." 

She threw herself on the little white bed, 
thinking. It was on this same little bed that 
she had woven dreams as a girl. Here she had 
planned her first book. Here she had dreamed 
of the little baby coming to her. Here Dollie 
had been born. Here she had lain awake that 
she might feel her baby in her arms. Her arms 
were empty now . . . 

"Priscilla! " 

Dunstane was calling her. She got up wearily. 

"Where have you been all this time? You 
might just as well have gone to the concert for 
all the good you have done to me . . . You are 
never here when I want you ..." 

" What is it, Dunstane? " 

" Oh nothing; I can do without it ... 
229 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Your face is enough to prevent any request I 
might wish to make." 

" If you tell me what it is ..." 

"And your voice ... it has a nice cheer- 
ful sound, hasn't it? You can be gay enough 
when other people are here ... I don't know 
what has come to you lately . . . You were 
miserable enough when you had the child . . . 
now she is gone you are ten times worse." 

" Is that all you wish to say? " 

" I wanted the Pall Mall from Mrs. Markham. 
She was to have brought it ... But you needn't 
go ... And don't stand there like a martyr. 
You can leave me . . . After all, I am happier 
without you." 

Priscilla trailed her steps down to Mrs. Mark- 
ham's flat. She could hear the children laugh- 
ing as they played. It was she who had taught 
them to be merry she whose heart was break- 
ing. 

She turned the handle and went into the 
room. Then she paused, her face changing. 

" Children dear, what are you doing?" 

The question silenced the fun, but their faces 
were still gleeful. 

"We're pl'yin' at buryin' your little byby," 

Susie piped up. " Dollie's deaded, and we're 

230 



OH THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING! 

puttin' her into the bury-hole . . . It's a beauti- 
ful pl'y-" 

"It is not a play for little children," said 
Priscilla, her voice ringing sharply. "It is a 
play for grown-up people, for mothers . . . You 
must wait till you are mothers." 

" Learn us another pl'y> Mrs. Momerie." 

They tugged at her skirts. 

Priscilla gave a great cry : 

"It is the only one I know! " 

***** 

Her voice was on its old dead level when she 
returned to her husband. 

" Mrs. Markham is not in, Dunstane. You 
will have to wait for your paper." 

"I can't wait; I'm too tired. I will go to 
bed." 

She brought the chair and helped him to bed 
as usual. When he was settled, she stood look- 
ing at him, uncertain. Her lips quivered. 
Would he not help her against herself ? 

He lifted his head, frowning to see her there 
still. 

"What are you waiting for? I wish you 
would go and leave me." 

"Very well, I will go," she answered de- 
spairingly. 

231 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

She dragged herself into the sitting-room and 
sat down. She must think. 

But she could not think there, with the Ma- 
donna, and Tobias and the Angels looking down 
at her . . . H er girlish ideals, Dunstane had called 
them. She went into the kitchen. 

There was a strange passiveness on her face 
now . . . yet in half an hour she would be " a 
Poor Thing " a woman at whom even the 'bus- 
man might point derisively. What did it matter? 
She could scarcely sink lower than she had sunk 
in these months, when she had served Dunstane 
with outward devotion and in her heart cherished 
contempt and all uncharitableness towards him. 
She looked at the last months. They wore a 
different complexion even from the months of 
her first disillusioning. Then she had been 
strong to pity the man's weakness, and her girl- 
ish spirits had carried her safely over the shallows. 
She had been true to him in all loyalty, though 
her eyes had been opened to his real character. 
It had not taken long to find out the man; but 
she had hidden her discovery and tried to de- 
ceive herself as she deceived others. And 
she had been sorry for him, lying helpless all 
day. Love for her husband was dead, but she 
could give him such love as she gave Betsy 

232 



OH THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING! 

Huggins and the other pensioners on her affec- 
tion. 

But even this had been withdrawn after Dol- 
lie's death. She had made another discovery; 
and she could not forgive Dunstane for letting 
her child die. His helplessness was not due to 
paralysis, but to its hysterical imitation ; he could 
walk if he would ; yet he had sacrificed the baby 
rather than betray himself. This too Priscilla 
had hidden, not upbraiding him even in secret. 
And he had rewarded her by denying the one 
thing her heart craved. And since the episode 
of Mrs. Markham's baby he had made no show 
of love for her. She had almost begun to long 
for the hollow pretence that before had mad- 
dened her. 

By hard teaching Priscilla was finding out that 
it is only Love that can translate life into happi- 
ness. And there was no love in her life. Since 
Dollie's death she had closed her heart to all 
that still remained to her. 

She was in the chair where she had sat hold- 
ing her little dead baby. But it was not Dollie's 
weight that she felt on her knee. Maiden's head 
was lying there. He was crying because she 
had lost Dollie, and her fingers were stroking 
his hair , , , It was he that had helped her 
233 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

through those terrible days. She went with 
him up the street of Frodsham when he carried 
Dollie for the last time. She was glad that he 
had let no one else touch her child . . . The 
tears were dropping down her cheeks: slow tears, 
falling heavily, like the drip, drip from melting 
glaciers. The tears loosened the ice round her 
heart. She felt a glow of warmth as she walked 
with him through those days. 

Suddenly she bent forward, covering her 
shamed face with her hands, and a thrill of hu- 
miliation passed over her; for now she knew 
that she loved Maiden. She had loved him ever 
since she had lost Dollie. 

She had not suspected it before. There was 
no joy in the knowledge; it filled her with the 
bitterness of another failure. 

She tried to get away from the tumult in 
heart and brain. Her thoughts flew to Dun- 
stane, to hide there from the storm of passion 
crashing through her. "Go away and leave 
me ... I am happier without you." They 
were impaled on the sharp voice. Ah, that was 
true! Dunstane would be happier with some 
one in whose eyes he did not read discovery 
of his shams . . . He had never touched her 

heart . . . 

234 



OH THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING! 

"Follow your heart, Priscilla: it will never 
lead you wrong." 

It was Maiden who had said that . . . No, it 
was Cardie a good woman, and she knew what 
it was to love . . . 

She was so tired of being lonely ... so very 
tired of the weary treadmill and the weary 
prison. Follow her heart? She knew now that 
Maiden held her heart. 

And yet . . . She could not deliberately turn 
her back on all that she had valued in the old 
life; her girlish ideals, her loyalty to right, her 
belief in purity, her allegiance to that "Whom 
God hath joined ..." 

A sudden darkness fell upon her thoughts a 
sudden horror of great darkness . . . Whom God 
hath joined? But God had not joined her life 
with Dunstane's. The Church had not blessed 
their union; it had only been a legal con- 
tract . . . 

Her thoughts groped in the darkness, seeing 
only the flashing will-o'-the-wisp, " Follow your 
heart, Priscilla." She rose trembling, putting 
out her hand to the fluttering light. She would 

follow her heart. 

***** 

The Queen's Hall was packed. It was the 

235 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

first big concert of the season, and a notable 
one. The Italian Diva was announced to sing, 
and a cluster of lesser lights, Madame Lomaz 
among them. Miss Cardrew, two empty stalls 
beside her, had no time for regrets. She was 
all excited happiness. 

It was time for Gertrude to sing. The 
manager came on. " Madame Lomaz was pre- 
vented by illness . . . He begged to introduce 
the clever young soprano, Miss Gertrude Ten- 
nant, of whom they had all heard. It was her 
first appearance in Queen's Hall. He had great 
pleasure in introducing so charming a debu- 
tante" He disappeared, to reappear leading 
Gertrude. 

Miss Cardrew sat up, stiff and wondering. 
Was that their little Gertrude? 

She stood facing the audience, her eyes bright, 
her cheeks flushed, happiness, like the shimmer 
of her white frock, enfolding her. She was not 
nervous. To-night she made her bid for Mai- 
den's love. Surely when he saw her success, 
when he heard her voice filling the great hall 
surely he would see that she was not unworthy 
. . . surely he would love her at last . . . And 
she had chosen her song for him. She would 

tell him in public, loudly, before all those thou- 
236 



sands, what she dare not whisper to him in 
secret. 

The pianist played the opening bars: 

" Oh that we two were Maying !" 

They saw her grow deadly pale. Her eyes 
had been caught by Miss Cardrew's white front. 
She had seen the hollow place in the big audi- 
ence. 

It was to an empty stall that she was to sing 
. . . And Priscilla was not there either. 

She looked at the music and opened her lips 
. . . No sound came . . . Her voice had left her. 

The pages dropped from her shaking hands. 

"Stage fright . . . Poor little thing . . . She 
is pretty, too ..." 

They clapped. 

But with the thought of Priscilla a memory 
had come to Gertrude. She saw her lying on 
her bed in mortal agony, bearing her pain, facing 
death without a cry. She too could be brave; 
she too would go down into the Valley of Death 
and make no sound. 

She let the pages lie where they had fallen. 

Clasping her hands she fixed her eyes on the 
high lights in the third tier. The pianist look- 
ing at her played over the introduction a second 
23? 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

time. She did not fail. Clear and full and true 
the song came 

" Oh that we two were Maying 

Down the stream of some soft spring breeze 
Like children with young flowers playing 
In the shade of the whispering trees . . . 
Oh that we two were Maying 
Oh that we two were Maying !" 

The thrill of excitement in the hall increased. 
She was only a child, but no one had ever heard 
that song rendered as she gave it. 

41 Oh that we two sat dreaming 

On the sward of some sheep-trimmed down, 
Watching the white mist stealing 
Over river and mead and town ! 
Oh that we two sat dreaming 
Oh that we two sat dreaming ! " 

The stir subsided ; the audience sat breathless. 
They forgot the florid emotion of the music. 
The peal of that young voice carried all the 
yearning, all the longing, all the pain of all the 
hearts that had ever loved. 

A great quiet, threaded by the song, held the 
vast hall. Here and there a man gripped the 
handle of his seat, a woman sobbed. 

4 And our souls at home with God . . . with God . . . 
And our souls at home with God." 
238 



OH THAT WE TWO WERE MAYING! 

Her voice- did not falter. The people who 
were near enough saw the tears dropping down 
her cheeks. She had left the platform and was 
down the steps before the applause burst ... It 
rang and echoed and broke again, thundering as 
the hall had rarely heard it thunder. 

The manager, rubbing his hands, and smiling 
and bowing, had no opportunity for his little 
speech. 

" Miss Tennant must be excused an encore 
was quite impossible, quite out of the question 
altogether. They would hope to listen to her 
many times in Queen's Hall." 

They silenced him again. Then they settled 
down grudgingly to listen to the Diva. 
239 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

A BLANK WALL. 

THE sun blazed on Regent's Buildings, mak- 
ing the rooms stuffy and close. The noise of 
footsteps, the clatter of people going up and down 
the steps, was clearer than usual " parched " 
Priscilla had once called the sounds. The mothers 
bundled their babies in shawls and gave them to 
the other babies to carry out of the flats into 
the streets. They opened their windows, and 
hung out bed-clothes and pieces of carpet to air. 
They shook the dust of weeks on to the heads 
of people passing below. The roar of the 
Euston Road came louder through the open 
windows. A brass-band was humorous some- 
where near. The lark, hanging outside in the 
sun, shrilled of the skies. 

A water-cart went by, and its splash came 
with a soft monotony as of rain. 

Gertrude had left a bunch of big moon-daisies 

for Momerie as she passed. They signalled the 

240 



A BLANK WALL. 

summer. Dunstane was in a better temper to- 
day. He had slept well, and had not missed 
Priscilla till the morning. Now he missed some- 
thing more than Priscilla. There was an empti- 
ness in the room he could not account for. His 
eyes sauntered round . . . Ah! he had it. What 
had she done with Tobias and the Angels the 
Madonna too ? He studied the blank wall until 
she came in. 

" Priscilla, what has happened to the pic- 
tures ? " 

She lifted her eyes, blanker than the wall. 

" I have taken them down . . . You were right, 
Dunstane: they belonged to the time of girlish 
ideals. They are not suitable any more." 

Her voice seemed to trail on the ground. 

" It has taken you long enough to come round 
to my way of thinking ... It sounds to me a little 
high-falutin now, unnecessary too. I had got 
used to them. I don't care to look at a bare 
wall . . . Suppose you put them up again." 

"I can't; the step-ladder has gone down to 
the people in the basement. Besides, I could 
not go up again; it made me dizzy." 

" Well, they can wait till Maiden comes in ... 
I will get him to hang them . . . Dizzy, were 

you ? You are looking wretchedly ill . . ." 
241 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"I was up all night with Mrs. Markham's 
baby." 

"Ah, that accounts for it ... You will never 
look well so long as you persist in wasting your 
time on other people." 

" The baby had convulsions and she came for 
me. We gave the little thing a hot bath and 
she is better." 

He noticed the despair in her voice, and his 
glance studied her more carefully than usual. 
Yes, she looked very ill. He had never seen 
her so gaunt and wretched and hopeless. 

" Priscilla, I was more or less brutal yester- 
day. I didn't mean half of what I said. I wish 
you had gone to the concert." 

" So do I ! with all my heart! " she cried pas- 
sionately. 

Her tone made him look again. Her mouth 
was strained and white, the parted lips dry. 
Her eyes, a hard glitter in them, moved rest- 
lessly. 

' ' Were you so disappointed ? and you haven't 
got over it yet . . . Isn't that a little childish ? " 

"It is not that ... I must tell you. I can't 
go on living here after . . . without ..." 

" My good girl, what is the matter ? " 

She came near to the sofa and stood with 
242 



A BLANK WALL. 

hands twisted together, looking down at 
him. 

Dunstane's face was lifted cheerfully, his air 
superior, as one above such weakness as she was 
showing. He looked prosperous enough, lying 
there with nothing of the invalid about him. 
It was Priscilla who was the wreck. 

"Last night," she began hoarsely, "I made 
up my mind ... to leave you ... to go ..." 

Dunstane laughed. 

" I don't wonder . . . Yesterday I must have 
been 'gey ill to live wi' '. . . But you must 
acknowledge it is not often the east wind affects 
me." 

She pressed her hands together; two patches 
of red, burning on her cheeks, made her face 
livid. 

"Dunstane, try and understand ... It is so 
hard for me to tell you ... I was going with . . . 
with ..." 

Her limbs were trembling; she sunk down on 
her knees and hid her face in the cushions. 

"Poor Priscilla! To think you should make 
such a fuss about a wretched concert ... I 
have been lying here more than a year ... do 
you hear me complain ? But you are a true 
woman ..." 

243 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH 

His tone lashed her. She sprang to her feet 
again. 

" Don't ! " she cried sharply, her quick breath 
strangling her. "It is not a light thing to me . . . 
I was going with . . . with Mr. Maiden." 

" And why didn't you go ? " he asked lightly. 
It amused him to see Priscilla, "the Equable," 
as he called her, in a passion about nothing. 

" I was going," she said miserably. " There 
seemed nothing to stay for ... I didn't do it 
hastily ... I thought about it ... And I would 
have gone . . . only . . . only ..." 

"Only what ?" 

" Mrs. Markham came for me . . . and the 
baby . . . made me think . . . you had loved . . . 
Dollie . . . and you would be lonely." 

"So you spent the evening with Mrs. Mark- 
ham's baby. Don't you think that seems a 
little illogical, Priscilla ? As far as my loneli- 
ness was concerned, you might just as well have 
been at the concert with Maiden." 

Priscilla clenched her hands as they hung at 
her side; an appealing anguish chased the pas- 
sion from her face. 

"Oh, why will you make me say it, Dun- 
stane ? Can t you understand ? . . . I was going 
away with . . . with him ... to Normandy ..." 

244 



A BLANK WALL. 

The clatter of the words in her throat was 
like the sounds on the stairs outside . . . She 
saw a sudden sharp rigidness in Dunstane's figure. 
He stiffened from head to heel. His eyes were 
cruel . . . She covered her face, and sunk down 
again beside the sofa . . . But the keen blade of 
his glance cut away even the poor protection of 
her shame. It slashed about her bent head . . . 
It was harder than words or blows. 

She lifted her face to meet it ... the cold 
steel made her shrink back cowering. 

"Dunstane ! for Dollie's sake ..." She put 
out her hand. 

''I am thinking of Dollie, " he said icily. 
" This explains your neglect of the child." 

A smile shuddered across her lips. 

"You are wrong . . . My little baby ..." 

" There, Priscilla ! don't go into that story . . . 
I have had enough for to-day ... I must ask 
you to leave me." 

She lifted herself slowly to her feet and looked 
at him with strained eyes. The smile had 
withered her lips. 

" I know I have done wrong ... If you will 
forgive me . . . Let me stay ..." 

"It is no question of forgiveness," he said 
coldly. " Let you stay ? . . . I have no option . . . 
245 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

I am helpless in my misfortune ... I must de- 
pend on some one. My wife seems to be the 
proper person ..." 

" I will never see Maiden again ! " she cried 
passionately. 

"There you are absurd . . . selfish too. I 
can't afford to break with Maiden. I depend 
on him for society. I have a duty to the men 
who attend his At Homes. I don't blame 
Maiden. The fault was not his. You are not 
attractive enough for any man to lose his head 
about you. No doubt he pitied you, and 
when your feelings carried you away . . . No, 
Maiden is not to blame I am convinced of 
that." 

" It was my fault," said Priscilla. " It was 
all my fault." 

She stood watching Dunstane, seeing the 
rigidness pass from his figure, the cheerfulness 
return to his face, the airy content perch once 
more on his forehead. A quick passion leaped 
through her; fire blazed in her eyes. Her 
thoughts held a whip knotted with scorpions. 
She longed to twist it round that lying body, to 
tell him that she despised him; that she knew 
the paralysis which held him was not of limb, 

but of will and mind and heart, and all that 
246 



A BLANK WALL. 

makes a man . . . He saw the flame in her eye; 
perhaps he read her thoughts. 

" No more hysterics, Priscilla, " he said airily. 
" I will trouble you to bring me my work. 
That at least is left to me. My salvation lies in 
work. 

She threw her whip from her, choking back a 
sound that was neither sob nor laugh. He was 
so pitiful she could not even despise him . . . 

She was outside the door when he called her 
back. 

" You might ask Maiden to come in and put 
those pictures up . . ." 

The colour dashed into her cheeks; she stared 
at him. 

" Dunstane! ..." 

" Why not? " he sneered. " You surely don't 
expect me to lie here looking at a blank wall 
because you have made a fool of yourself ! " 

She clenched her hands, the nails biting into 
the flesh. It was part of her punishment; she 
would bear it meekly. 

247 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

PRISCILLA'S face was ghastly, but she held 
her head high and walked with firm steps to 
Maiden's door. He answered her knock him- 
self, and she went into the studio, not speaking. 
It was their first meeting after the night's mad- 
ness. Maiden's cheeks were hollow. There was 
no love in his eyes. 

They looked at each other in silence. Her 
lips trembled, the pride passed from her face. 
She put out her hand and caught at a chair to 
steady herself. 

He drew another forward. 

"Sit down," he said, but his voice was stiff 
and reserved. There was an aloofness even in 
his glance. 

"I have come to tell," she said in a low 
voice, " to tell you ..." 

"Yes?" 

"That I was wrong . . . last night." 

There was a sudden loosening of the muscles 
248 



THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

round his mouth. It was as if a cord had 
snapped, freeing them. 

"The fault was mine," he said coldly; " I 
measured my trust in you by my love for you." 

"You are angry with me," she caught her 
breath. 

"Why didn't you come? . . . after promis- 
ing . . ." 

" I forgot," she whispered; " I had promised 
Dunstane first." 

"You hurt me cruelly, Priscilla; no man 
likes to be fooled." 

She looked up fearlessly; her voice rang. 

" And don't you think we should both have 
been fooled if I had gone ?" 

" That depends ..." he said coldly. "You 
would not have given up much happiness ..." 

"Would there have been any happiness to 
find?" she asked. "Imagine our life after- 
wards . . . two people who had nothing high or 
beautiful in their love . . . only the lowest, and 
the shame and the despair. Don't you think it 
would be worse than anything I suffer now ? 
Wouldn't we loathe each other ? and the sin and 
the passion ? The only bond between us, shame ! ' ' 

He walked up and down the room before he 
answered, clearing his throat. 
249 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

" I had thought of all that yesterday. I was 
willing to risk it. I should have found com- 
pensation in love." 

"It is not love," she whispered, "it is not 
love that is blind and selfish ..." 

"It is easy for you to talk," he said bitterly. 
"You don't know what love is ... If you had 
loved me you would not have come now ... to 
talk platitudes." 

Her eyes blazed up at the rough tones. She 
looked steadily at him. 

'' Last night," she said slowly, "I said what 
was not true. I told you I did not love you. 
It was false. I do love you ... I have never 
loved any one but you ..." 

He sprang towards her, an eager question in 
his eyes, but his face fell before her blank irre- 
sponsiveness. 

" Why do you tell me this ? " he asked fiercely. 
" To mock me ? " 

" Because I want you to help me against my- 
self." 

He laughed very bitterly. 

" We have gone too far to go back ... It is 
impossible to forget." 

" I don't want to forget. I want you to help 

me to make my life better," she said. 

250 



THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

"You are a woman; you don't understand a 
man's nature. Do you suppose that after this 
we can go on living as though we were nothing 
to each other ? " 

" We have done it all these months." 

" Do you suppose we could keep up the farce ? 
Your husband ? " 

" Dunstane knows; I have told him ..." she 
interrupted. 

Maiden started, gazing at her with wide eyes. 
For the first time he noticed the havoc made by 
the night in her appearance. 

A feeling of great pity for her swept over him. 
He could imagine how a man like Dunstane 
would receive her confession; how his weakness, 
his very lack of manhood, would make him jeal- 
ous of any tampering with his rights, his prop- 
erty. It was that type of man that made the 
most brutal and exacting plaintiff in divorce 
cases . . . And Priscilla had had to bear the 
coarse abuse such men heap upon erring 
wives. 

" You have told him ? " he said pitifully. 

"Yes. I wanted to begin again, and I was 
obliged to tell Dunstane." 

" And what did he say ? " 
251 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" He sent me to ask you to come and hang 
some pictures for him." She laughed. 

Maiden stared at her. 

" Are you serious ? " 

"Yes," said Priscilla, flushing deeply. 

" And you are going to stay with a weak fool 
like that ?" 

"Yes ... I can try to win back the months 
I have wasted." 

"What do you mean? You can't want to 
win back his love ? " 

" No, but I can atone for my failure." 

Maiden looked at her, and pity mastered his 
anger. He understood the life she had been 
living. Every moment of it was traced upon 
her. It was not Dollie's death only that had 
cut those lines in her young face . . . 

He put out his hand to her, passion giving 
way to tenderness. 

"Priscilla, right is not always best. If I 
leave you here you will die." 

She shook her head sadly. The tears had 
started to her eyes at the change in his voice. 

" Right may not be happiest, but it is best," 
she answered steadily. "I have wasted these 
months and been selfish. I see where I failed, 
and I am not going to add a bigger failure to 

my life." 

252 



THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

Maiden walked to the window and stood look- 
ing out in silence. Then he turned to her, his 
face set, a new reverence in his glance the new 
reverence that was the old. 

"You wish me to leave you?" he asked 
gently. " You wish me to leave you to die ? " 

She lifted her white face, but he could not 
meet the misery of her eyes. 

" I shall not die pain never kills," she smiled 
bravely. " I wish you to go to Normandy . . . 
just the same as you had intended . . . And 
when you can help me to be true to myself 
and . . . and to Dunstane . . . you will come 
back ..." 

" If you loved me you could not ask such a 
thing," he said with quick impatience. "You 
forget that I love you." 

"It is because I love you that I can say it," 
she answered; "and because you love me you 
will do it." 

Before he could speak again she had left him. 
* * * * * 

"My salvation lies in work; that at least is 
left me." 

For weeks the words hummed in Priscilla's 
ears, dulling the cry of her heart, the wail of 
her broken spirit. 

253 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Maiden had gone away. The madness of the 
night was over for both. Priscilla had lifted up 
her life again to carry it in humility and peni- 
tence until death should take it from her weary 
arms. She had followed her heart, and it had 
led her to Mrs. Markham's help. Once more 
the little child had saved her. 

She understood now the perils of inaction. 
" The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love 
of God " led her softly where grief called to her 
for pity and healing. There were others around 
her more wretched than herself, and when her 
heart cried out in its loneliness she went away 
from the house into the slums, and looked on the 
starving children and on the misery of the people, 
and listened to the moan of the human sea, and 
came back strong to endure. She was gentler 
with Dunstane, more patient with his weakness 
because cf her own. 

The scene between Dunstane and herself had 
ended by her claiming her freedom. Three 
rooms might be large enough for joy; sorrow 
needed more space. Priscilla had to go into the 
highways to find room for her aching heart ; and 
the tide of the misery she saw outside bore her 
over the sharp rocks of her desolation and remorse. 

Down in the slums, with the awful roar of the 
254 



THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

sea in her ears, her thoughts went back to The 
Book of the Great City. Maiden had said she 
should write it with him. She told herself now 
she would write it without him. She would 
write it in atonement of her fall. She would 
gather some good from the past. She would 
retrieve the wasted years. In love lay salvation 
and deliverance from the self that had betrayed 
her. Once more her heart opened to the poor 
people around her. It did not matter that the 
gifts she could give were only pity and gentle- 
ness and sympathy. She was a woman who had 
failed sinned in thought if not in fact ; she had 
loved, and she had tasted death. And the 
things which made the life of the Buildings, 
failure and sin and hopelessness and death, she 
could touch. Her hands were tender because 
they had been torn. 

How could she spare the time from this work 
to write The Book of the Great City ? She had 
already too much writing to do ... She still 
trod the wheel, beating out the stories by which 
they lived. It was hard enough to make thirty 
shillings a week writing constantly; she could 
not afford to break into this necessary work . . . 

But the night was hers the nights she had 
given up to her love for Dollie. She could give 
255 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

them up now to her love for the people. She 
would write the book that should make the wail 
of the city heard in the homes of the rich. 

It was summer-time, and the light came soon. 
She might snatch three hours before the work of 
the day. 

After that Priscilla began to write at three 
o'clock. And as the weeks went on Miss Car- 
drew and Gertrude became anxious about her. 
She was thinner than ever, with weary eyes that 
had looked their last on youth. 

Dunstane explained her appearance to his own 
satisfaction ; smiling cheerfully as he listened to 
the experiences of Mrs. Gibson on women who 
had wasted, and to stories of Mrs. Markham's 
sister, who had a strong resemblance to Priscilla, 
and had died, when she was forty, of a broken 
heart ... His cheerfulness had come back since 
the day of Priscilla's humiliation. It was as if 
her lapse condoned his faults. 

If Priscilla died of a broken heart and that 
was all fudge ! he would not be to blame. 
What husband would have looked so lightly on 
her fault as he had done ? . . . He had scarcely 
spoken to her at the time, and the subject had 
not been mentioned again. He felt that he had 

acted magnanimously, and Priscilla ought to be 

256 



THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 

grateful to him. It certainly looked as if she 
felt some gratitude; she had been subdued in 
her manner lately, and these gossiping women 
spoke of consumption! . . . 

It was true that she was subdued and gentle. 
Her lapse had taught her mercy and pity. She 
could not judge Dunstane harshly any more. 
If he did not live up to his New Religion, did 
she live any nearer to her ideal? If he lay 
battening on his selfishness, had there not been 
greater selfishness in her own conduct ? If he 
deceived himself into a sham invalidism, did 
she not deceive her friends by a pretence of 
faithfulness to him ? She lashed herself with 
the whip she had prepared for him, and grew 
pitiful and tolerant towards his weakness. 

Tobias and the Angels, and the Madonna, were 
still in the cupboard waiting for Maiden to 
come back and hang them up. But the end of 
August came and Maiden was still in Normandy. 
And one day a box arrived at Regent's Build- 
ings addressed to Mrs. Momerie. It contained 
"A Nineteenth-century Madonna." 

Priscilla carried it away to the bedroom to 
hang over it unseen. Maiden had given her 
back Dollie . . . She could look at her face again. 

Dunstane gazed at the picture with eager eyes. 
257 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

He would not let her take it away. It must 
be where he could see it ... over the mantel- 
piece . . . He was tired of that blank wall . . . 
Why should she have it in the bedroom? . . . 
But there . . . she had never loved the child as 
he had . . . 

Priscilla made no answer. Her face was very 
grey when she put up the picture. Her fingers 
trembled; but to-day the dizziness was in her 
heart . . . 

The painting loosened Dunstane's tongue. 
He would be able to get on with his work now. 
The memory of the child would inspire him . . . 
He talked eloquently of the little child . . . the 
great power of life . . . the strongest influence 
in the world ... It was a mistake to have given 
the child no place in his New Religion . . . The 
infant had been the keystone of all religions . . . 
from the Egyptian Mythology. Yes, it was a 
mistake, but he could still make it right . . . 
He would rearrange his notes, developing the 
idea ... It was worth doing . . . The place of 
the child on the altars of earth. 

Priscilla sat, grey and silent, while he talked. 
But when Miss Cardrew came in and he began 
again, she slipped away, the ashes on her face, 

her eyes remembering. 

258 



CHAPTER XXV. 

" MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

NOVEMBER had come, slight and worn, grey 
with mist and fog. The year was thinning to- 
wards its close, sharpening down to that point 
that would pierce the earth when the New Year 
looked at the post Time had set up to mark his 
track. The city shivered in its worn garments, 
shrinking within itself as it felt the fingers of 
cold and fog. Regent's Buildings were cheer- 
less and gloomy. The red bricks had lost the 
glow of youth during these three years. 

Priscilla had finished The Book of the Great 
City. Messrs. Snoad & Follows had the manu- 
script under consideration. She had put her 
heart into it, giving voice to all the pity and 
pathos of the life around her. 

She had put her life into it. The hours she 
had spent in writing it had been hours snatched 
from sleep snatched also from sleep's twin 
brother, Death. 

The work had been too much. The heat of 
259 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

the summer, the anguish with which she had 
written, the pinch of want, the sordidness of 
the life she lived, had set their mark upon her. 
Her strength had lasted while the work lasted; 
now it was almost spent. 

The daily stories had become an insufferable 
burden; they did not bring in thirty shillings a 
week now. She kept the household together 
with difficulty . . . only Dunstane did not no- 
tice that their comforts were fewer than of old. 
She denied herself bare necessaries, but a fever- 
ish excitement kept her up. She must see her 
book in print that was still to live for. 

One day she tottered up to Miss Cardrew's 
flat. 

The little spinster was at her desk, in an an- 
cient purple gown trimmed with velvet van- 
dykes. Priscilla knew the costume; it was 
dedicated to tragedy. 

Miss Cardrew ran forward to meet her, flour- 
ishing a cheque; her face broken up between 
tears and laughter. 

"I was just coming down to tell you, my 
dear," she cried joyfully. "It has come at 
last! My book has sold beyond my most pleas- 
urable dreams. Priscilla, my dear, I shall be 

able to live in the country . . . and have a little 

260 



"MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

shop . . . and you will come and stay with me, 
and get strong again." 

Priscilla stooped and kissed the happy old 
face. Then she slipped down on her knees, and 
clung to Miss Cardrew and broke into passionate 
weeping: 

"Oh, Cardie dear! If I could only see the 
country again, the fields and the skies ! If I could 
only get away from the sound of the sea . . . 
I can't bear it any more. And the sight of 
drowning men and women drifting past . . . 
always . . . always . . . And the sad faces of the 
children . . . And I can do nothing ... I think 
my heart is breaking ... If I could only go to 
Frodsham and lay my head on Dollie's grave . . . 
and look up at the skies ..." 

Miss Cardrew kneeled on the floor and drew 
her into her arms. 

" My dear, my dear! You are ill, Priscilla, 
and worn out. O my poor darling, I never 
saw you cry before! . . . Where is your brave 
heart? . . . Hush! hush! I can't bear to hear 
you . . . You shall go away to the country . . . 
And Mrs. Gibson will take charge of your dear 
husband ... I thought of it as soon as the 
cheque came ..." 

"If I could get away from the sea . . . the 
261 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

moaning . . . the voice of the people that per- 
ish ... If I could go to Frodsham . . . Cardie, 
do you remember the lane where the violets 
grew? . . . And that big field with the cow- 
slips? . . . And the hedge full of birds' nests? . . . 
Oh, if I could see them again ... If I could only 
see them again! ..." 

She broke off crying, and Miss Cardrew cried 
with her. 

"If I could go to Frodsham," Priscilla went 
on, " I would never come back again . . . never 
. . . never ... I would keep a little shop like 
Dunstane's mother, and sell soap and soda, and 
things to make life clean . . . and I would give 
sweeties to the children, and put sand in the 
sugar ..." 

She laughed hysterically. 

"My dear, my dear, don't! You break my 
heart! You can't mean it ... You would not 
choose to bury yourself in a grocer's shop . . . 
your youth . . . your talents ... It is so dif- 
ferent with me ... I am old ..." 

"My youth! My talents! " Priscilla echoed, 
a terrible shrillness in her laugh. " Cardie dear, 
my talents are not worth ten shillings a week . . . 
And my youth . . . look ..." 

She bared her arm and showed the skin with- 
262 



"MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

ered over the sharp bones. There was a little 
white scar on her wrist : that was where Maiden 
had kissed her. Miss Cardrew made haste to 
draw the sleeve down again. 

' Priscilla! Priscilla! you break my heart, my 
dear ..." 

' ' There are so many broken hearts in London, ' ' 
said Priscilla, "one more doesn't seem to mat- 
ter." 

" My dear Priscilla, if you would really like to 
go ... I had thought of it once, it is such a 
pretty little shop, cool and clean, not like the 
Buildings . . . and the name is over the door 
still: ' Momerie, Grocer and Tea-Dealer' ..." 

Miss Cardrew stopped and looked her eager 
question. 

"What do you say?" Priscilla asked wearily. 

Her passion was over; her white face on 
Miss Cardrew's knee bore a ghastly resemblance 
to Dollie's. 

" The little shop, my dear ... I can purchase 
the good-will ... I have enough money ... I 
was going to do it for . . . for an acquaintance . . . 
a friend . . . And there is no need ... if you 
will take it instead . . . You and your dear hus- 
band could live there very happily . . . The name 

is over the door Momerie ..." 
263 



THE YEARS Til A T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

The little spinster choked, and coughed to 
hide it ... 

11 These November fogs, my dear ..." 

She sets her lips sternly. Priscilla should not 
guess what it cost her to give up her dream of a 
cottage in the country for the end of her days . . . 
She was doing it for Priscilla's sake . . . 

"And you will let me come and spend a Sun- 
day with you occasionally . . . very occasionally, 
my dear," she faltered. 

Priscilla's eyes were closed. Miss Cardrew's 
heart dropped as she caught that ghastly resem- 
blance to Dollie. 

***** 

" Give up our life here . . . and my work . . . 
and go to Frodsham to keep shop? ... It is 
difficult to believe you are sane, Miss Car- 
drew! " 

"But indeed, Mr. Momcrie, I have thought 
very rationally about it ... The scheme has 
various advantages . . . You can't continue to 
reside here . . . Our dear Priscilla is very, very 
ill ... Unless she gets away into the country I 
tremble for her . . . She has come to the end of 
her strength . . . She is not able to write any 
more . . . What is to become of you ..." 

"When my great work is published," said 
264 



" MO ME R IE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

Dunstane cheerfully, " Priscilla will not need to 
write any more." 

"Yes; oh, that is quite correct ... It is cer- 
tain to achieve a very great success . . . But till 
you finish it ... Time is of the greatest impor- 
tance ... At Frodsham Priscilla would gain 
health and strength . . . She would manage the 
little shop ... it would not make so great a de- 
mand upon her as literature . . . You could 
continue your great work . . . And you could 
get out into the air ... you would not be a 
prisoner as you are now . . . though your pa- 
tience is an example to us all ... and we 
shall all be so much poorer without your beau- 
tiful philosophy to help us ... Indeed, Mr. 
Momerie, there are advantages, and for Pris- 
cilla's sake ..." 

"Why doesn't Priscilla come and ask the fa- 
vour for herself ? " 

"I have persuaded her to lie down. I fear 
she is very ill. I never saw her cry before . . . 
Our dear Priscilla, so good, so cheerful, so kind, 
always unselfish ..." 

"It is the dull weather . . . hysterical, proba- 
bly . . ." 

"It is more than that. She is wasted to a 
shadow. I have seen it for some time . . ," 
265 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

"It is impossible for me to go to Frodsham," 
he said sharply " any other place ..." 

"She has set her heart on Frodsham . . . 
Dollie is there, and she Wants to go back to the 
scene of her happy girlhood! " 

"It is all false sentiment . . . She can go 
away for change ... to the sea for a week ..." 

" That will not save her . . . She is dying . . . 
our dear Priscilla . . . Nothing but Frodsham 
can save her ..." 

Miss Cardrew's white front bobbed despair- 
ingly. She gave Dunstane a look eloquent of 
her disappointment and grief, and she went 
away leaving him to the suggestion. 

Go back to Frodsham to be a grocer like his 
father he, a 'Varsity man and the author of the 
New Religion ! Back to Frodsham among the 
rustics away from that little group of disciples 
that made life worth living! Sacrifice his future 
to tallow candles he who held a torch that 
would light the world! Miss Cardrew must be 
crazy ! 

His laugh was silenced by a knock and the 
opening of the door. Gertrude looked in; her 
face was graver, sadder than it had been, but her 
eyes were more steadfast and kind. Her hands 

were full of parcels, toys for the Christmas tree. 

266 



" MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

she was making ready for the children of the 
Buildings. 

" I wanted Priscilla, " she said, looking round 
for her. 

" Priscilla and Miss Cardrew are out of their 
minds," said Dunstane. 

"Priscilla! . . . " Gertrude stopped . . . 
" How absurd you are! " she laughed relieved. 
"What has happened? " 

" Sit down and let me tell you, Miss Tennant 
. . . You are a practical person . . . not senti- 
mental like Miss Cardrew or impulsive like my 
wife . . . What do you think those women have 
planned together ? . . . They actually want me 
me! to go and live in the country and keep a 
grocer's shop! " 

He looked at her. There was no dismay on 
her face. 

" Well ? " she said quietly. 

"Well ? Did you ever hear anything so ab- 
surd ? " 

" I think it is a very sensible idea, Mr. Mome- 
rie." 

He raised himself on his elbow and looked at 
her. 

" Do you know what it means ? " 

" I think I do ... it means less drudgery for 

267 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

Priscilla, less struggle to live; more fresh air, 
and sun, and escape from the life that is killing 
her ..." 

"Priscilla, Priscilla," he said fretfully. "It 
is always Priscilla ... I must sacrifice my brill- 
iant future to Priscilla, I suppose ..." 

"Your brilliant future?" said Gertrude, lift- 
ing her brows. " What is that ? " 

"It is impossible you have forgotten, Miss 
Tennant," he said with dignity. "I allude to 
my great work, the New Religion ..." 

" I have ceased to believe in your great 
work," she said quietly. "A religion without 
love only makes a helpless, selfish, impotent 
life . . . And that is what your religion has 
brought you to . . ." 

" I don't understand you," he gasped. 

"It is time some one made you understand," 
she said drily ..." And for Priscilla's sake you 
shall hear the truth from me." 

"Priscilla again, "he said bitterly. "Not 
content with her own evil thoughts, she must 
needs give them to you." 

" Priscilla is a hundred times too good for a 
mean nature like yours," she said hotly. " We 
should all have found you out long ago if she 

had not made us believe there was something in 

268 



" MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALERS 

a man to whom she could give such love and 
faithfulness ... It is she who has screened you 
all these months . . . Do you think you could 
have deceived us all if she had not shielded 
you ? " 

"Go on," he sneered; " I lie here helpless 
. . . but go on . . ." 

"Yes, I will go on," said Gertrude furiously. 
"You are a fraud, a humbug! You lie there 
all day content to see her killing herself: you 
never want anything ... it is Priscilla who 
starves . . . You talk of your New Religion it 
is all gas . . . Has it ever made you lift a straw 
to lighten her burden ? Has it ever given her a 
grateful word for the life she has wasted on you ? 
A beautiful girl like Priscilla! And she has 
drudged and slaved, and killed herself for a man 
whose heart is not big enough for a mouse ..." 

He smiled forgivingly. 

" You are under my roof, Miss Tennant; I will 
try to remember that ..." 

" I found you out the day they went to Frods- 
ham with Dollie ... I saw then what you were 
. . . You hadn't a thought for the poor broken- 
hearted mother . . . The loss was all yours. 
As if you had given Dollie one thousandth 

part of the love Priscilla gave . . . And after 
269 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

that you kept her here, and robbed her of every 
bit of relief she might have had in her life . . . 
And now you would keep her here and kill her, 
sooner than confess yourself the failure you are!" 

"Your opinion against the world, Miss Ten- 
nant? " he sneered. 

"It is not mine alone . . . Mr. Maiden 
knows ... he found you out first . . . And I 
would tell Miss Cardrew, only for Priscilla's 
sake ..." 

' ' This is the girl who has brought me flowers 
and sung to me ..." 

"You only got them, because in that way 
they reached Priscilla . . . You have my real 
opinion of you now, Mr. Momcrie . . . You 
would have had it before if it had not been that 
I would not hurt Priscilla ..." 

" When you have quite done ..." 

" I have done now . . . And I strongly advise 
you to go into the country and keep shop and 
support your wife, as any other man would have 
done long ago in your place. It will give you a 
better future than any you will ever win from 
your New Religion." 

Gertrude's face was hard in its indignation. 

"I forgive you," he called after her as she 

went out. He lay there with an amused smile 

270 



" MOMER1E) GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

on his face. He was pleased with himself. It 
was delightfully humorous that Priscilla, who 
had failed, should pose as perfection, while he 
should be shown up in the worst colours. A 
less magnanimous man would have cleared him- 
self at Priscilla's expense. He had borne that 
girl's insults with dignity and in silence. Yes, 
he was pleased with himself. 

So they thought Priscilla had sacrificed her- 
self for him ? How absurd ! She had not chosen 
to gratify him even in trifles. That request of 
his for the pictures now ? He had had to miss 
Tobias and the Angels, and stare at the blank 
wall for months. He had liked Tobias and the 
Angels; it was more suggestive than Maiden's 
picture which had replaced it. The Angels had 
led him to success; Priscilla and Dollie led no- 
where but to Frodsham. 

That suggestion of Frodsham was ridiculous 
. . . Miss Cardrew's crazy sentiment. He stared 
at the picture . . . What a terrible hunger in 
Priscilla's eyes and how ill she looked! Was 
it true that this life was killing her? Could she 
only be saved by going back to Frodsham? 

To Frodsham? It was impossible! Imagine 
him selling candles, and cheese and bacon! But 

he had forgotten. He would lie on the sofa 
271 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

while Priscilla sold them. Still it was almost 
the same thing. Going back to Frodsham would 
mean a confession of failure. 

Staying here was not so pleasant either. 
Maiden and Priscilla and that girl pitted against 
him meant failure in another sense ... If it had 
been any other place but Frodsham . . . After 
all, would Frodsham be worse than life here with 
those three against him? 

If it had been anything but the old place, the 
old shop. Why must Priscilla set her heart on 
Frodsham of all the dull little towns in Great 
Britain? "Nothing but Frodsham could save 
her now." Was it true? Must he sacrifice his 
future to Priscilla? 

Nonsense! it could not be dreamed of. To 
humiliate himself, to give up all that he had 
achieved, hoped for ... he could not do it ... 
Not even to save Priscilla. The perspiration 
grew on his forehead . . . He moved impa- 
tiently, upsetting the piled sheets he had been 
paging for the New Religion when Miss Car- 
drew came in. The blank pages fell around 
him in a shower; they covered him; they 
strewed the floor. They represented the New 
Religion and he could not move to gather 

them up. 

272 



" MOMERIE, GROCER AND TEA-DEALER." 

He felt his helplessness again as on that day 
when Dollie had died and he had not moved to 
save her . . . His little Dollie, his nice little 
thing . . . He could imagine her lying on the 
sofa beside him, her tiny grasp on his finger 
holding him; where was she leading him? 

He turned his face to the wall. He had 
turned in that way when she had died, only to- 
day her cold little hand was tight around his 
finger. She cried to him that he would let her 
mother die as he had let her die ... A spasm of 
terror shook him. He could not get away from 
the little dead child. Dollie's hand clutched his 
finger. 

Some hours he lay there while the devil and 
the angels fought for the soul of Dunstane Mome- 
rie . . . 

When Priscilla came in he looked up cheer- 
fully. 

" That is a capital scheme of Miss Cardrew's. 
We will go back to Frodsham. Lucky for us 
the lease of the shop has expired just now . . . 
And the name is still over the door. It will be 
a good experience for me to go back to the sim- 
ple life of my boyhood . . . And you will be in 
the shop again, only now there will be no counter 
between us . . ." 

273 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

11 1 think the counter has always been between 
us," said Priscilla, very wearily. 

But he took no notice of the remark . . . 
She had to listen to a pastoral poem on the 

Pleasures of the Past. 

274 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

THERE was only the publishers' letter to wait 
for now. Priscilla would sell the copyright of 
The Book of the Great City. The sum down 
would help them to take the little shop at Frods- 
ham, then she and Dunstane would begin life 
again grocer and tea-dealer; and Miss Cardrew 
would live with them and have a share in the 
business. Priscilla had decided that she would 
not allow Cardie to spend all her savings upon 
them. But she knew her story was good . . . 
There would be no difficulty in getting that sum 
down . . . If the letter would only come! There 
was so little time ; her life was slipping from her, 
the clutching fingers had no strength to hold it. 

Every day she grew weaker : she would have 
gone to see Messrs. Snoad & Follows; but she 
had not strength enough even for so little. 

At last she wrote to them, begging to know 
their decision ... By the afternoon's post she 
received a packet. The neat superiority of that 

275 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

parcel struck terror to her: it was complacency 
covering defeat . . . She opened it with sinking 
heart. Inside there was a sheet of paper: 

" To Mrs. Momerie, 30 Reg.enfs Buildings, Euston Road. 
With Messrs. Snoad & Follows" 1 Compliments" 

That was all ... The Book of the Great City 
returned with the publishers' compliments. 

" Compliments! " she laughed bitterly. 

They sealed her doom with compliments. It 
was death's little irony . . . She would keep those 
compliments to help her through the Valley of 
Death. She folded the paper and put it carefully 
aside, then sat down holding the manuscript 
on her knees. She could not go into the sitting- 
room to Dunstane . . . The bitterness of death 
was upon her. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes! 
her book had come back to her . . . 

This was the end, then the end of that hope 
that had lent her crutches through these weary 
months . . . There was nothing left to hope for 
now. She would never write again . . . And 
she would never see the green fields at Frods- 
ham . . . She would have to stay and die in the 
Buildings, where she had fought that hard fight 
with life and been beaten, where she had lived 
those wasted years. Even her last wish the lo- 
custs had eaten. 

276 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

How clearly the years stood out, ridged against 
the setting sun; and failure was red on them 
all. The worthless success of her first book; 
her marriage that had been no marriage; her 
little baby . . . her life in the Buildings. She had 
meant to make the place brighter and better for 
every one. What had she done? 

She had taught the children to play at bury- 
ing Dollie. 

She had spoiled Gertrude's life, coming be- 
tween her and the man she loved. She had 
banished Maiden from his home. 

She had tried to silence the voice of the great 
sea moaning round her, and she had only added 
other voices to swell the moaning. 

She thought of the poor people she had loved 
and would have helped . . . Her empty hands 
had brought them nothing. 

She thought of her father ... It was she who 
had driven him from the Rectory. Yet he had 
been right in opposing her marriage. 

She thought of Dunstane; she had given him 
nothing but what he could have bought . . . 
Her unfaithfulness. She had not even been 
true to herself. The locusts had eaten every- 
thing. 

And now, at twenty-four, there was nothing 
277 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

left to live for ... She was dying. And her 
Book of the Great City, into which she had 
written her heart, had been thrown back to 
her . . . with compliments! 

She sat staring at it with bleached face and 
stricken eyes ... It was like a live thing ... It 
had hands pushing her down into the ground, 
heaping failure upon her ... It had feet that 
danced upon her grave ... It had eyes that 
mocked her futile ambition . . . She put out her 
hands, trying to push the book from her. She 
was too weak to move it. She covered her eyes 
with a bitter cry . . . 

"O God! the years that the locust hath 
eaten ! the years that the locust hath eaten ! " . . . 

And like an echo of the words came the steady 
tapping on a coffin-lid in the basement. 

Her thoughts quieted. She had sat in that 
room holding her living baby, and love had been 
near her. There she had held her little dead 
baby; and love had been very close. There 
she had fought her great battle, and love had 
conquered. And now she held another dead 
child another Dolores. Death had conquered 
love! Death and the locusts. The tears were 
scorched in her eyes, burnt up by those parched 

years that the locusts had eaten. 

278 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

And now it was nearly over . . . She looked 
at. her hands . . . They were skeletons . . . One 
wrist had a little scar . . . 

" If I could have seen him again," she whis- 
pered. She rose unsteadily, slipping the book 
on to the chair. Was this death that she felt? 

"It will soon be over, then. Thank God! 
Thank God ! " Her eyes were on the title of the 
manuscript: " The Book of the Great City. . ." 
No, that was wrong: it should have been 
something else . . . There was another title . . . 
There was another title ..." The Grace of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, the Love of God "... no, 
not that! not that! If she could only remember 
. . . Ah yes! she knew it ... She found a pen, 
and scored through the title, her fingers shaking. 
Her limbs were shaking too ; she could not stand. 
She slipped down on her knees, and wrote over 
the title that she had crossed out : 

" The Years that the Locusts have. Eaten." 

She knelt there, looking at it with wistful 
eyes. 

" My little child . . . won from the night . . . 
and it died when it saw the day . . . But I shall 
have Dollie again ... I shall have my little 
Dollie again ..." 

She took up the pen, holding it uncertainly 

279 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

while she thought. Then she guided her un- 
steady fingers for other words. When she had 
finished she read aloud what she had written: 

" / will restore unto them the years that the 
locust hath eaten. ' ' 

"Yes, that is right; that makes it right," 
she smiled. "I can say Dollie's prayer over 
that: 'The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and 
the love of God.' ' 

She rose up trembling. 

" If I could get out into the air I should not 
be so faint. The top of a 'bus ... I should like 
the wind to bite my face ..." 

She put on some wraps, and crawled into the 
sitting-room. 

"I am going out a little, Dunstane. Have 
you everything you want? " 

"Yes; everything. Don't hurry back, Pris- 
cilla; Miss Cardrew is coming in to help me with 
the Introduction." 

" I know . . . You will not miss me, then . . . 
I shall take a red 'bus, I think, as far as Ken- 
sington Church." 

He looked kindly at her. " Stay out as long 
as you can; the drive will do you good." 

" Yes, good-bye, Dunstane." She turned into 

the room and kissed him, thinking that he had 
280 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

been more thoughtful of late. He had seemed 
to care for her a little; and she had not found it 
so difficult to please him. 

Mrs. Gibson was bustling about on the land- 
ing, shaking mats. The door of Maiden's flat 
stood open. 

" Mr. Maiden 'ave telegraphed to say as 'e'll 
be 'ome to-day or to-morrow, Mrs. Momerie." 

" I am glad." 

Priscilla smiled as she looked through the 
doorway. She could catch a glimpse of the 
procession of angels carrying lilies. 

As she went through the big doors the post- 
man was coming in, whistling. She wondered 
how he could be glad, carrying despair and 
death and sorrow ... It was only the boy with 
telegrams that ought to whistle . . . There was 
no red 'bus in sight, but a green one was driving 
along the Euston Road. Yes, that would do. 
It went along the Marylebone Road. She would 
be able to see the bare trees in the Park as they 
went past. She liked the trees bare a fine veil 
against the fine veil of the sky. She stopped 
the 'bus, holding on tightly as she climbed 
the steps. It made her think of the step 
ladder in the Buildings. So she had climbed 

when she hung up her "Girlish Ideals." So 

281 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HATH EA TEN. 

she had mounted when she took them down 
again . . . 

The keen air flogged her laggard blood, her 
pulses. She could feel her heart beating ... It 
was nice to be " up high " once more . . . And 
what a smart little driver! Only the poor horses 
dragged wearily . . . They were tired too . . . 
The little coachman must get another team . . . 
She looked about her, her eyes brightening. 
A wan colour had grown in her cheeks. The 
blood was swingeing through her veins . . . Was 
she the same Priscilla who had thanked God for 
death an hour ago? She did not feel like dying 
now . . . Hope was coming back . . . Everything 
was not at end because one publisher had refused 
her book. She would try another firm. The 
book must succeed ; it was alive . . . Courage, 
Priscilla! A merry heart goes all the way! To 
die at twenty-four! Nonsense! A healthy 
young woman . . . killed in three years! Where 
was her vitality? What was the good of her 
splendid physique? Nonsense! She was alive, 
like her book; she would live to succeed yet !. . . 
She was stronger already ... all but the strange 
giddiness . . . she ought not to have got on the 
top of the 'bus . . . she would have been better 

inside. 

282 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

"I must go down," she said, smiling. "I 
was not meant for the Heights." 

* * * * * 

' It is a business letter, Mr. Momerie; and it 
is marked ' Immediate ' . . . I think it might 
be advisable to open it." 

Miss Cardrew pushed up her spectacles, and 
gazed enquiringly at Dunstane as she handed 
him the letter. 

" Priscilla said she would not be gone long, 
but I told her not to hurry back ... I may as 
well see what it is.'' 

The letter was from Mr. Snoad. He had 
read with great interest Mrs. Momerie's strong 
and powerful story, and he congratulated her. 
It was a long time since he had read anything so 
good. They would be glad to offer her terms 
a sum down, and a royalty. He would bring 
out the book at once, for the spring sales . . . 
But the title was not attractive. Could she not 
think of a better one? And the end of the story 
was so very sad . . . Could she not see her 
way to remodelling the last chapter? He had 
forwarded the manuscript by parcel post, and 
would be glad if she would make the alterations 

he suggested and return it without delay. 
283 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

WHERE IS PRISCILLA? 

IT was after ten o'clock when Maiden arrived, 
tired from long travel. But there was more than 
weariness in his face. He was older and sterner 
and graver; a man who had fought a fight in 
which youth had been conquered. But if he 
had lost his youth he had gained strength, and 
the expression of careless good-humour had 
given place to earnestness. His eyes brightened 
as he climbed the steps . . . After all, it was 
good to be at home again. 

The lamps were lighted in his flat. Supper 
was laid. There was a fire. The flames flickered 
on the wall, showing the procession of angels 
carrying lilies. He laid down his traps and 
glanced round him. 

" Yes, it is good to be at home again, and to 
know that I have conquered the old madness. 
These six months I have fought with beasts at 

Ephesus ... I can help poor Momerie in his 
284 



WHERE IS PRISCILLA? 

fight and I can help her to see his good 
points ..." 

A step was in the hall ; and Mrs. Gibson bus- 
tled in ... 

"I thort as 'ow I 'card you come, and I'm 
sure I'm more nor glad to see you, Mr. Maiden. 
Dear, dear! to think as you're just in time to 'elp 
poor Mr. Momerie in his trouble." 

" What is wrong with him? " said Maiden. 

" It's Mrs. Momerie . . . she hain't been 'ome 
all day, and 'e's that upset ... I'm sure it's 
'eart-breakin' to see 'im takin' on ... and my 
Jimmy has cried hisself to sleep ..." 

"What has happened?" Maiden asked 
sharply. 

"Well, there's no tellin'. Some says one 
thing; some another . . . She said as 'ow she'd 
take the 'bus to Kensington 'igh Street. But we 
all knows as 'ow it goes on to 'Ammersmith . . . 
and there's the river, and the bridge . . . and 
she's been that low lately . . . and looked orful. 
As I said to Jimmy ..." 

Maiden did not wait for the end of the sen- 
tence He was in Dunstane's room before Mrs. 
Gibson saw that she had lost her listener. 

The room was full of people, men and women 
from the Buildings who had come to offer them- 
285 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN, 

selves ... if they could do anything. Dun- 
stane's audience was larger than usual, but his 
eloquence had deserted him. Maiden's heart 
filled with pity when he saw his haggard face, 
and the eyes stricken with remorse and a terrible 
dread. The dread was not entirely a selfish one: 
it was a fear lest he might never be able to atone 
to Priscilla for the wrong he had done her. At 
last the scales had fallen from his eyes. The 
people round him were showing him what Pris- 
cilla had been to them, thus teaching him the 
part she had played in his life. His limbs trem- 
bled; his teeth chattered. Despair held him in 
a silence as of death. At Maiden's entrance 
he looked up and fell to a pitiful moaning that 
set the women sobbing. Maiden laid his hand 
on his shoulder. " Tell me what you fear." 

Dunstane told the story brokenly, blaming 
himself for having driven Priscilla from her 
home. 

She had said she would take a red 'bus and go 
as far as Kensington Church. She was fond of 
the drive . . . That was at three o'clock, and 
nothing had been heard of her since . . . He had 
noticed a strange expression on her face when 
she went out . . . and she had kissed him . . . 

the first time for months . . . and said good-bye 
286 



WHERE IS PRISCILLA? 

. . . She had never intended to come back . . . 
He had driven her to her death." 

" She has been taken ill, and is lying at some 
police-station or hospital," Maiden said. 

" Ay, run in for drunk and disorderly when it's 
only fits like many a woman before her," said 
Mrs. Gibson from the doorway. 

" Do you mean to say you have made no en- 
quiries?" Maiden asked. 

Dunstane looked at him in weak despair. 

The other men had only just heard of it. 
They were willing to go anywhere, to do any- 
thing, for Mrs. Momerie. 

He sent them to Kensington, Hammersmith; 
to ask at police-stations . . . railway-stations. 

He himself was going to St. George's Hospi- 
tal. If she had been taken ill nearer home she 
would have got back to the Buildings. He 
waived Dunstane's theory. Priscilla was not a 
woman who would commit suicide. 

He went from place to place, further west 
still. He heard of women who had been taken, 
ill or dying, to the different hospitals, but he 
did not find Priscilla. It was too late to search 
successfully. 

At last he turned homewards. The others 
might have had better luck ... or she might 
287 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

have returned . . . He jumped into a hansom 
and dashed back to Regent's Buildings. 

The sound of the wheels brought heads to the 
windows. The Buildings had never been so 
lighted up at that hour in all the years of their 
existence. 

The heads were thrust into the bitterness of 
the winter night . . . Had he found her ? Had 
he heard anything ? The questions told him 
they had not found her; they knew nothing . . . 

He dragged himself up to the flat where 
Dunstane lay crushed, moaning that Priscilla 
would never come back . . . He had lost her 
his only solace, the one comfort of his life. His 
grief had reached the garrulous stage. Priscilla 
was passing rapidly from the woman to the 
angel. In the midst of his distress Maiden 
could foresee the place Priscilla would fill in 
Dunstane's eloquence in the days to come, 
should she not return to her position as house- 
hold drudge. 

Miss Cardrew and Gertrude were there, sitting 
dumb and tortured. Maiden did not notice 
them. 

Back into his room again ... to pace up and 
down. He could not sit still . . . and there was 

nothing to be done till morning . . . Was it pos- 

288 



WHERE IS PRISCILLA! 

sible that she had gone away because he was 
coming back? 

He could not think that of her either. She 
was not a coward . . . She knew her own 
strength. 

He grew sick and faint as his thoughts led him 
this way and that ; there was nothing to explain 
her silence but death ... If she had been alive 
she would have sent to them. 

Supper was on the table. He tried to eat, 
but the food choked him. 

He walked up and down listening to the mur- 
mur of Dunstane's cheerless monologue. 

Other people from the Buildings came into the 
studio to talk sadly of what had happened. They 
would have to go to their work the next day; 
but to-night they watched with Mrs. Momerie . . . 
They could not sleep till they knew that no harm 
had come to her . . . She had been such a friend 
to them all. 

Maiden listened to the poor souls, biting his 
lips and hardening the muscles round his mouth 
as he heard what Priscilla had done for them . . . 
Their talk was all of Mrs. Momerie . . . Her 
merry ways, her kind heart, her goodness to the 
children; the clothes she had mended; the rooms 

she had cleaned; the sick she had nursed; the 
289 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

difference she had made in their lives; their 
changed homes . . . The women wept as they 
remembered these things. The men spoke 
stolidly, clearing their throats . . . 

At last he could bear it no longer, and he 
dashed out again ; he must look for her till he 
found her. He had searched among the dead 
and dying; now he would look for her among 
the living. He had forgotten that it was three 
o'clock, midnight and midwinter. There was no 
one in the streets but the policeman. The city 
was asleep. Even the children of the night 
were hidden in deeper shadow. There was no 
roar of the human sea: the tide had ebbed far 
off and sobbed on the misty shore of dreams. 

He walked on and on, along the empty chan- 
nels of the torrent; hearing Priscilla's name in 
the sound of his noisy footfall, seeing her face 
borne on the night . . . 

He rang the night-bell at one or two hospitals, 
and was bidden to come again in the morning. 
At the police stations it was the same thing: 
" Enquire at Scotland Yard in the morning." 

And with what slow feet the morning drew 
on ! And at last it came, so darkly, so drearily, 
he did not know it was morning. 

A bell clanged out eight strokes. 
290 



WHERE IS PRISCILLA? 

He looked round him dazed. He was in the 
Euston Road close to Regent's Buildings. He 
had unconsciously wandered home. 

It was cold and raw and foggy; there were 
very few people about. 

A weary-looking nurse was coming out of the 
gate of the New Hospital for Women. He saw 
her, and his face woke from its apathy. Then 
it settled down again into despair. No, it was 
impossible. If Priscilla were there so close at 
hand, they would have heard of her long ago . . . 
He had already asked if any young woman had 
been taken there, and been answered . . . And 
yet . . . He lifted his soft felt as the nurse 
passed him. She stopped to answer his ques- 
tion. 

" Yes, a case had been brought in yesterday . . . 
concussion, brain and spine . . . but the woman 
was neither young nor pretty . . . about forty . . . 
No, she could not be the girl he described ..." 

She was moving away when she turned again. 

" Her clothes are marked ' P. M.' 

" Priscilla Momerie," he answered dully. 

"Then it is strange it maybe the person 
after all ... She fell from the top of a 'bus . . . 
coming down the steps . . She has been un- 
conscious ever since." 

291 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

His lips twitched. 

" She is only twenty-four . . . but it might . . . 
Would they let me see if ... if ..." 

"Not at this hour ... no one can be ad- 
mitted so soon. You must come later ..." 

" I have been seeking her all night." 

She looked pityingly at his grey face, the 
eyes dim in their hollow sockets. Those un- 
steady lips pleaded for him. 

"I don't know . . ." she hesitated ... "I 
might . . . under the circumstances . . . You can 
come with me, and I will ask ..." 

He followed her into the hospital. By-and-by 
she returned. "Yes, you can come; she is un- 
conscious still and the paralysis gains on her." 

His knees shook under him as he followed 
through the empty ward. Had he found her at 

last? 

293 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

A SCREEN was round a bed at the end of the 
room ; he went with the nurse behind the screen ; 
his eyes, outstripping his feet, reached the pillow 
first. 

The face he saw was shrunken, and a chalky 
whiteness sharpened the mouth. The eyes were 
closed. 

The years that cried from every line of cheek 
and brow made him catch his breath with a 
great sob. 

" No, it is not Priscilla! Thank God! Thank 
God!" 

At the sound of his voice her eyes unclosed. 

" Have you brought Dollie? " 

Faint and dim as they were, the tones were 
Priscilla's the eyes were Priscilla's! 

"Oh, my God!" 

He held on to the head of the bed, and the 
nurses turned and went out of sight of his grief. 

The light grew until her eyes saw clearly. 
293 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

"It is you! " she whispered. 

He steadied his face and took her hand in 
his. 

" I have come, you see." His smile was ter- 
rible. 

" Did they send? " she asked faintly. 

" I found you." 

"I am glad." 

He gazed down at her. It was hard to see 
her like this, but he held himself in a tight grip. 

" Dunstane must come," said Priscilla. 

" I will bring him." 

" He will be lonely ..." 

" Don't ... I will do ... what I can . . ." 

"No . . . what is right." 

"You will help me." 

"Right was best before ..." she smiled 
faintly. 

"Yes!" 

"And happiest ..." 

" Yes, always." 

Presently she spoke again . . . 

" I shall have Dollie . . . and the locusts . . . 
The years what was it?" 

"The years that the locusts have eaten," he 
said hoarsely. 

"Those ... I will restore." 
294 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

Her voice sunk ... A white drowsiness was 
quenching the light on her face. 

Maiden bent over her. 

" Do you know me, Priscilla? " 

"Yes, Dunstane," she smiled. 

She closed her eyes, muttering: 

" I will restore the years . . . the years ..." 

Maiden's heart froze as he saw the light dying 
from her face . . . She shivered. 

" Dollie kissed me ... so cold ..." 

He turned to the nurse, a question in his 
eyes. 

She came nearer. 

" It may be some time yet . . . when the pa- 
ralysis touches the brain ..." 

Suddenly she opened her eyes . . . they shone 
like stars, but her voice was thick and low. 

"The years! the years . . . painted on the 
wall . . . the locusts did not eat them . . . they 
made angels . . . They are coming ..." she 
laughed . . . " walking along the wall ... A pro- 
cession . . . angels carrying lilies." 

Her voice died away. Maiden held his 
breath. 

"What are their names?" she muttered. 
" Cardie knows." 

Maiden took her hand in his. 
295 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

" Don't you know me, Priscilla? " 

She stared blankly at him. 

' ' Bring fresh horses, ' ' she said hoarsely . . . 
"Failure, Pain, Death, another team ..." 

The nurse came nearer. 

"She is wandering ... I think it would be 
wise ..." 

He looked appealingly at her, drawing in his 
breath with a sharp sound. 

"You can come again, later." 

" I will come again," he said, smiling palely, 
" I will come again." 

He lifted her hand, holding it tightly. 

" Don't you know me, Priscilla?" 

She opened her eyes again . . . 

"They call him Death," she whispered. 

" No, no, Priscilla . . . Life! ... not Death." 

She laughed shrilly. 

"Fresh horses another team! . . . Bring 
fresh horses ..." 

He could not leave her like that. He stooped, 
holding her eyes, her hand tight in his grasp. 

"Priscilla! Oh, my love, don't you know 
me ?" 

The perspiration was thick on his forehead. 

' ' Love . . . Pain, Death . . . carrying lilies ..." 

she said blankly. Down the long ward her 

296 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

shrill little voice followed him: "Love, Pain, 
Death, carrying lilies." 

* * * # # 

The rain was pouring down. The wind tossed 
and flattened it against the windows of the hos- 
pital. It clamoured on the panes, like fingers 
impatiently tapping. It was a face pressed close 
to peer inside the ward where Priscilla lay. 

In the road the roar of the human sea was 
muffled : it rolled along sullenly, like an under- 
beat of the storm rolling overhead. The wind 
roared louder than the roar of the traffic, silenc- 
ing the trains . . . 

The skies had triumphed over earth. 

In the empty ward everything was still; life 
slowed down to the beat of death. 

It was visitors' day. But the one patient was 
not expecting visitors through the rain and the 
storm . . . 

But visitors were coming down the ward, 
escorted by the nurse. 

Maiden guided Dunstane, who tottered and 
trembled at every step, stricken with the anguish 
of manhood awakened at last. The women's 
faces were strained and drawn. They passed 
behind the screen at the end of the room. 

At the sight of the bed Maiden set his teeth 
297 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

in a hard line. Pain and Death had run more 
swiftly than Love . . . The angels stood at the 
gate of the sepulchre, seeing the grave-clothes . . . 

He helped Dunstane into the chair, then 
went round to the other side of the bed, and 
stood looking down at her. 

" Was that Priscilla ? . . . O God ! Priscilla ? " 

He shut his eyes from the sight of her; but 
he opened them again . . . Even so ... it was 
the dearest face on earth . . . and earth was 
claiming it. 

"There must be some mistake ... It cant 
be Priscilla," Gertrude whispered. 

He could not speak, but he pointed to the 
card over the bed . . . Her name was there. 

"Our dear Priscilla," Miss Cardrew sobbed. 

She lifted one of the hands lying on the 
counterpane, and stroked it with her numb 
fingers. Gertrude knelt down and hid her head in 
the bed-clothes to shut out the sight of Priscilla. 

And outside the wind roared, and the rain 
beat on the window trying to see where she was 
drifting past on the outgoing tide. 

Mrs. Markham and Susie and Jimmy Gibson 
came in. They had struggled through the 
rain, and Susie had brought her doll in its 

cradle Priscilla's gift. She put them on the 

298 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES, 

bed, her eyes round with terror. Mrs. Markham 
drew a bundle from under her cloak. It was 
one of the twins in the old white shawl: 

" I thought she might ha' liked the loan of 
her . . . but . . . but ..." 

She broke off, and hid her face in the shawl. 

Jimmy had thrown down his red handkerchief 
on the bed, and was crying naturally in his 
sleeve, waking the ward with his sobs. Mrs. 
Markham took him away with Susie. 

Gertrude lifted her head. The handkerchief 
reminded her of one he had waved three years 
ago in honour of a daughter of the Queen. This 
lay like the colours on a dead soldier . . . But 
Priscilla wasn't dead ! She would get better . . . 
she would live. 

She looked yearningly into the face, marred by 
its awful anguish . . . Priscilla had been like that 
when Dollie was born . . . And she had lived 
she would live now. 

Her sobs shook the bed. Maiden's hand on 
her shoulder quieted her. 

He stood there with ashen face, his eyes fro- 
zen . . . He had been in time . . . That was 
something . . . 

There was a deep hush in the ward. 

Outside the wind shrieked, the sullen roar 
299 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

came nearer ... It was the moan of the great 
waters. Priscilla was drifting past one of the 
white faces that the waves bear out to the wider 
sea beyond the human sea. 

She lay with her eyes closed, knowing nothing 
of the love she had won, the pity of the hearts 
she had touched, the cold waters bearing her out 
to wintry seas . . . 

Was that Priscilla, who did not comfort them 
though they wept? 

It was time to go; the ward must be cleared. 
The rain beating on the window could see in, for 
the room was lighted. It could see the group 
behind the screen, but not the wrung hearts 
weighted by their great love and sorrow. 

The moan of the sea was in the ward : it 
throbbed round them, rising and falling. The 
little white beds drifted down the sides of the 
long room . . . One face whiter than the beds 
drifted past more swiftly . . . 

The nurse came nearer, and whispered to 
Maiden. 

The set line of his mouth tightened. 

Gertrude, her face hidden in the clothes, 
shook the bed unreproved. Miss Cardrew still 
fondled the hand that had grown colder than her 

fingers. 

300 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

Maiden drew himself up, shivering. He 
stooped again and kissed Priscilla's face. 

Then he laid his hand on Gertrude's arm: 

" Come, dear." 

She took his hand, weeping passionately, and 
so he led her away. 

Miss Cardrew's sobs broke out at last: 

" She said she would never see death! Thank 
God!" 

She turned to Dunstane, her thin little figure 
shaking pitifully. 

" Our . . . dear . . . Priscilla! " she sobbed. 

He looked at her dazed. 

' ' Not . . . not . . . she is not ? ' ' 

"Yes," she sobbed. "But . . . but ... to 
Frodsham . . . with us ... where she can see . . . 
the skies ..." 

Dunstane tottered to his feet and stood gazing 

at the dead face, in silence. 

***** 

Dunstane was sitting in a chair, his face in his 
hands. A limp and pitiful object he was, and 
Miss Cardrew could not restrain her tears as she 
looked at him. Gertrude's heart had long ago 
melted at the sight of his hopeless misery. 
Maiden's eyes were on the picture over the 

mantelpiece all that remained now of mother 
301 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

and child ; for in twenty-four hours Priscilla 
would be sleeping beside Dollie in the church- 
yard at Frodsham. 

The scene in the hospital the day before had 
drawn these four very close together ; the personal 
element passing out of their relations under the 
spell of the sorrow they shared. Maiden stood 
beside the man he had wronged and the girl 
whose life he had shadowed, linked to them by 
the dead woman whom each had loved. They 
might have been members of one family facing 
the breaking up of their home as they talked 
sadly together of the future. 

Miss Cardrew's proposal was to go with Dun- 
stane to Frodsham, and to establish him in the 
little shop which she would manage. 

" You will then be able to complete your great 
work in quiet," she concluded. "And I shall 
esteem it a privilege to minister to the comfort 
of one whom our dear Priscilla loved." 

" That seems to be a good plan," said Maiden, 
waking from his reverie. "It is impossible for 
you to stay on alone in this place. I shall not 
return to it after . . . after to-morrow," he added 
huskily. 

At the words Gertrude lifted her head quickly, 

but she did not look at him. Her black dress 

302 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

and heavy eyes gave her a pathetic air, and some- 
thing in her sharp movement touched Maiden. 
He turned to her gently. 

"What are you going to do, Gertrude?" he 
asked. 

Her face was white and set and resolute. She 
looked steadily before her. 

' ' I shall remain in the Buildings, and try to 
carry on Priscilla's work." 

" But you will be very lonely, dear; and it 
will not be easy to fill our dear Priscilla's place," 
said Miss Cardrew. "You cannot do what she 
did for the people." 

' ' She loved them ; and I will love them for 
her sake," said Gertrude simply. 

Miss Cardrew put her hand on the girl's 
shoulder. 

" My dear, you will be the only one of us left 
who know her, what she is ... was. . ." Her 
voice shook. 

Dunstane lifted himself, turning a haggard face 
towards them. " I have made up my mind to 
stay here too, in the home she made for me," 
he said hoarsely. 

" But . . . my dear Mr. Momerie . . . your 
great work ..." stammered Miss Cardrew. 

"I have burnt it," he said. " I could never 
303 



THE YEARS THA T THE LOCUST HA TH EA TEN. 

have gone on with it. She was sacrificed to 
it." 

He broke off and there was a strained quiet in 
the room. 

In the silence they heard the steady "tap, 
tap " of the undertaker below. He was finishing 
Priscilla's coffin. The sound was terrible. Dun- 
stane made haste to silence it. 

"I shall never write the New Religion," he 
went on brokenly. ' ' I shall never write a book at 
all. I am going to teach ... as she wished . . . 
It is not too late to do what she wished . . ." 

There was another silence. Maiden went to 
the window and stared out into the darkness. 
At the end of the road he could see the lights in 
the New Hospital. They were a bright barrier 
between himself and Priscilla, for whose sake he 
could not take up the burden of life. 

He had always despised Dunstane; yet Dun- 
stane was showing more manhood than he, and 
more love for Priscilla in his attitude towards 
the future. In leaving the Buildings Maiden 
had only thought of himself. 

Half-unconsciously he heard Miss Cardrew's 
shaky treble. She assured Dunstane it would 
cost her nothing to give up the Frodsham 
scheme. She had decided to keep on her room. 

304 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

She would be much happier in the Buildings, 
among her old friends; oh, much happier. 
Though indeed there was little happiness left for 
any of them now that they had lost dear Pris- 
cilla. 

Maiden turned abruptly from the window and 
held out his hand to Dunstane. His voice was 
very low. 

' ' You have proved me a coward ... I can't 
go away . . . We must help each other for her 
sake. . ." 

He turned on his heel and went away to his 
own flat. From his window he could see the 
room in the hospital where Priscilla was lying. 
That side of the building was dark, and the cold 
night was a link between them. 

* * * * * 

The traffic in the Euston Road was stopped. 
Omnibus and carriage and cab must make way 
for Priscilla, who was passing along the thor- 
oughfare between the hospital and station. 

It was a strange procession, and not without 
pomp and pride in spite of the simple hearse, 
and the one coach in which Miss Cardrew and 
Dunstane followed their dead. Gertrude had 
gone before to King's Cross; Maiden walked 

close to the hearse. 

305 



THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 

Behind him came, in tattered ranks, a long 
line of poor souls who had lost a friend. 

The people from the Buildings were there, 
dressed in black borrowed or hired for the occa- 
sion. And with them were people from the 
dingy streets round about, bedraggled women, 
miserable men, white-faced 'children, who wore 
no mourning save their heavy hearts. They 
followed Priscilla two by two, with bent heads, 
silently. They were going with her to the train 
that would bear her to her rest under blue skies. 
Euston Road paused in its business to wonder 
at the strange thing it saw that procession of 
the poor carrying their lowly grief; but Pris- 
cilla passed on silently and in great humility. 

The crowd on the pavements swelled ; and 
about the procession gathered the waifs and 
strays of St. Pancras', whose heedless questions 
pointed the silence of those other waifs that 
mourned. 

The woman playing the barrel-organ ceased 
her grinding to wonder with the rest. 

" I suppose it's somebody grand wot they are 
takin' aw'y to be buried," she said. "They 
couldn't make more fuss for the Queen herself. 
I never seed such a crowd at a buryin' before." 

" Nor I," said the woman beside her. " But 
306 



A PROCESSION OF ANGELS CARRYING LILIES. 

lor! 'tain't nobody of no account. She were 
only a pore young woman wot lived in them 
workmen's dwellings." 

So, with a smile on her lips, Priscilla passed 
on from the city of the living to the city of the 
dead a daughter of the people. 






THE END. 



LYRE AND LANCET. 

A STORY IN SCENES. 

By F. ANSTEY, 

AUTHOR OF " VICE VERSA," "VOCES POPULI," ETC., BTC. 
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THE RAIDERS* 

BEING SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN FA A, 
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THE VAGABONDS. 

A NOVEL. 

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TRYPHENA IN LOVE. 

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4 
AN EXPERIMENT IN ALTRUISM. 

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* tr 

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UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 



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